MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE 


BY 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


s 


c 


Copyright,  1882, 
BY  HODGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO, 

All  rights  reserved. 


F5  1863 
Al 

1882- 

NUIKJ 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTB ,  7 

THE  OLD  MANSE  ...  tb*f.        ....        .  11 

»^.  THE  BIRTHMARK 47 

A  SELECT  PARTY 70 

.V-TOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN 89 

*~  RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER 107 

MRS.  BULLFROG 149 

FIRE  WORSHIP 159 

BUDS  AND  BIRD  VOICES 170 

MONSIEUR  DU  MIROIB 182 

THE  HALL  OF  FANTASY 196 

THE  CELESTIAL  RAILROAD 212 

THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE 235 

— FEATHERTOP:  A  MORALIZED  LEGEND 253 

THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE 279 

EGOTISM;  OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT 303 

THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET 322 

DROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE 347 

THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE 363 

^-  ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL 381 

P.'s  CORRESPONDENCE .        .  407 

EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST 430 

PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK       ....  457 

SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY 476 

»    THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER 495 

TTHE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL 504 

A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION                                                      <  537 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

AFTER  his  marriage,  in  1842,  Hawthorne  estab 
lished  himself  at  the  Manse,  the  ancient  residence  of 
the  parish  minister  at  Concord,  Massachusetts.  It  is 
still  owned,  as  it  was  then,  by  descendants  of  Dr.  Rip- 
ley,  one  of  the  early  pastors  of  the  place,  and  an  ances 
tor  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson ;  having  been  built  in 
1765,  for  the  Rev.  William  Emerson,  whose  widow 
Dr.  Ezra  Ripley  married.  There,  in  a  small  back 
room  on  the  second  floor,  commanding  a  view  of  the 
river,  the  old  North  Bridge,  and  the  battle-field  of 
1775,  Emerson  had  written  his  "  Nature,"  six  years 
before ;  and  in  the  same  apartment  Hawthorne  pre 
pared  for  the  press  his  "  Mosses  From  an  Old  Manse." 
"  The  study,"  as  he  says  in  his  account  of  the  house, 
"  had  three  windows  set  with  little,  old-fashioned  panes 
of  glass,  each  with  a  crack  across  it ; "  and  it  does  not 
require  much  imagination,  nor  perhaps  any  violation 
of  history,  to  suppose  that  these  are  the  self-same 
panes  through  which  the  sun  shone  at  the  time  of 
Concord  Fight.  The  cracks  in  them  may  have  been 
caused  by  the  concussions  of  musketry  on  that  memo 
rable  April  morning.  On  the  glass  of  one  of  the 
two  western  windows,  which,  in  Hawthorne's  phrase, 
"  looked,  or  rather  peeped,  between  the  willow  branches, 


3775G8 


8  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

down  into  the  orchard,"  are  several  informal  inscrip 
tions,  written  there  with  a  diamond.  Among  them 
are  the  following :  — 

Man's  accidents  are  God's  purposes. 

Sophia  A.  Hawthorne  1843 

Nath1  Hawthorne 
This  is  his  study 
1843 

And,  lower  down :  — 

Inscribed  by  my  husband  at 

sunset  April  3d  1843 

In  the  gold  light     S.  A.  H. 

The  entire  wall  opposite  these  windows,  except  where 
it  is  broken  by  two  small  doors,  is  faced  with  wooden 
paneling  from  floor  to  ceiling,  concealed,  however,  un 
der  a  coat  of  paint. 

It  is  probable  that  the  material  for  some  of  these 
tales  had  been  matured  in  his  mind  previous  to  his 
going  to  Concord ;  and  they  may  have  been  in  part 
committed  to  paper.  A  former  acquaintance  of  his,  at 
the  date  of  this  memorandum,  still  living  in  Salem,  re 
calls  Hawthorne's  being  occupied  with  the  "  Virtuoso's 
Collection "  while  still  a  bachelor  and  living  in  Salem ; 
yet  that  sketch  was  not  incorporated  in  a  volume  until 
the  "  Mosses  "  were  issued.  It  now  forms  the  closing 
member  of  the  second  series.  This  "  Virtuoso's  Col 
lection  "  illustrates  a  taste  which  prevailed  forty  years 
ago  or  more,  for  imagining  impossible  curiosities  of 
the  kind  described  in  it.  The  newspapers  abounded  in 
ingenuities  ministering  to  this  fancy,  and  Hawthorne 
amused  himself  by  trying  to  outdo  them  and  by  after 
wards  bringing  his  inventions  together  in  an  artistic 
form.  The  members  of  his  family  and  some  of  his 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  9 

friends,  knowing  of  his  scheme,  suggested  articles  for 
his  collection  which  he  admitted  or  rejected,  as  he 
chose.  One  of  these,  which  he  included,  is  said  to 
have  been  proposed  by  Miss  Sophia  Peabody,  after 
wards  his  wife.  It  was  the  item,  "Some  Egyptian 
darkness  in  a  blacking  jug."  From  another  person 
came  the  following,  which  he  did  not  use :  "  The 
spur  of  the  moment,  from  the  heel  of  time."  "A 
few  of  the  'words  that  burn,'  in  an  old  match-safe 
(very  rare),"  made  still  another  article,  concerning 
which  the  recollection  is  that  he  invented  it;  but  it 
was  not  preserved  in  print.  Of  course,  the  sketch  as 
it  stands  is  his  own  conception ;  but,  as  it  was  un 
like  his  other  productions,  he  talked  it  over  with  his 
friends  —  something  which  he  scarcely  ever  permitted 
himself  to  do  with  regard  to  his  fictions  —  and  in  one 
instance,  as  we  have  seen,  adopted  a  clever  hint.  The 
Note-Books  contain  a  detached  memorandum,  just  be 
fore  the  date  August  5,  1842  :  "  In  my  museum,  all 
the  ducal  rings  that  have  been  thrown  into  the  Adri 
atic."  But  this  was  not  acted  upon.  In  the  same  paper 
the  hairy  ears  of  Midas  are  described  as  being  on  ex 
hibition  ;  an  early  forerunner  of  the  interest  which 
he  concentrated  upon  the  mysterious  ears  of  Donatello, 
in  "The  Marble  Faun." 

"  The  New  Adam  and  Eve  "  doubtless  grew  directly 
out  of  his  humorous  musings  on  the  life  he  was  lead 
ing  at  the  Manse.  They  were  recorded  in  his  Note- 
Books,  August  5,  1842.  "  There  have  been  three  or 
four  callers,  who  preposterously  think  that  the  courte 
sies  of  the  lower  world  are  to  be  responded  to  by  peo 
ple  whose  home  is  in  Paradise  ...  we  have  so  far 
improved  upon  the  custom  of  Adam  and  Eve,  that  we 
generally  furnish  forth  our  feasts  with  portions  oi 


10  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

some  delicate  calf  or  lamb."  "It  is  one  of  the  draw 
backs  upon  our  Eden  that  it  contains  no  water  fit 
either  to  drink  or  to  bathe  in ;  "  and  so  on.  It  was, 
in  fact,  a  similitude  which  both  the  romancer  and  his 
bride  in  this  first  and  so  idyllic  home  of  theirs  de 
lighted  to  keep  up  —  this  conception  that  they  were  a 
sort  of  new  Adam  and  Eve  in  an  unpretentious  Para 
dise.  "  Buds- and  Bird- Voices  "  also  shows  the  traces 
of  his  new  surroundings,  which  he  has  so  fully  and 
exquisitely  described  in  his  introductory  chapter  that 
nothing  remains  to  be  added.  Other  pieces  had  been 
printed  in  the  magazines  before  he  went  to  the  Manse 
at  all.  Those  which  he  wrote  there  —  "  The  Celestial 
Railroad,"  "  Rappaccini's  Daughter,"  and  various  oth 
ers  —  came  out  in  the  "  Democratic  Review,"  then 
the  most  important  literary  magazine  in  the  country, 
They  represent  nearly  all  that  he  put  'forward  in  the 
line  of  original  composition  from  1842  to  1846 ;  but 
during  that  period  he  edited  the  "  Journal  of  an  Af 
rican  Cruiser "  by  his  friend  Horatio  Bridge,  of  the 
United  States  Navy,  and  some  "Papers  of  an  Old 
Dartmoor  Prisoner,"  neither  of  which  has  since  been 
republished.  Finally,  just  at  the  close  of  his  residence 
at  the  Manse,  the  "  Mosses "  were  issued  in  two  vol 
umes,  at  New  York. 

G.P.L, 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD   MANSE 


THE  OLD  MANSE. 

THE  AUTHOR  MAKES  THE  READER  ACQUAINTED  WITH  HIS 
ABODE. 

BETWEEN  two  tall  gateposts  of  rough-hewn  stone 
(the  gate  itself  having  fallen  from  its  hinges  at  some 
unknown  epoch)  we  beheld  the  gray  front  of  the  old 
parsonage  terminating  the  vista  of  an  avenue  of  black 
ash-trees.  It  was  now  a  twelvemonth  since  the  funeral 
procession  of  the  venerable  clergyman,  its  last  inhabi 
tant,  had  turned  from  that  gateway  towards  the  village 
burying-ground.  The  wheel-track  leading  to  the  door, 
as  well  as  the  whole  breadth  of  the  avenue,  was  almost 
overgrown  with  grass,  affording  dainty  mouthfuls  to 
two  or  three  vagrant  cows  and  an  old  white  horse  who 
had  his  own  living  to  pick  up  along  the  roadside.  The 
glimmering  shadows  that  lay  half  asleep  between  the 
door  of  the  house  and  the  public  highway  were  a  kind 
of  spiritual  medium,  seen  through  which  the  edifice 
had  not  quite  the  aspect  of  belonging  to  the  material 
world.  Certainly  it  had  little  in  common  with  those 
ordinary  abodes  which  stand  so  imminent  upon  the 
road  that  every  passer-by  can  thrust  his  head,  as  it 
were,  into  the  domestic  circle.  From  these  quiet  win 
dows  the  figures  of  passing  travellers  looked  too  re 
mote  and  dim  to  disturb  the  sense  of  privacy.  In  its 


12  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

near  retirement  and  accessible  seclusion  it  was  the  very 
spot  for  the  residence  of  a  clergyman,  —  a  man  not 
estranged  from  human  life,  yet  enveloped  in  the  midst 
of  it  with  a  veil  woven  of  intermingled  gloom  and 
brightness.  It  was  worthy  to  have  been  one  of  the 
time-honored  parsonages  of  England  in  which,  through 
many  generations,  a  succession  of  holy  occupants  pass 
from  youth  to  age,  and  bequeath  each  an  inheritance 
of  sanctity  to  pervade  the  house  and  hover  over  it  as 
with  an  atmosphere. 

Nor,  in  truth,  had  the  Old  Manse  ever  been  pro 
faned  by  a  lay  occupant  until  that  memorable  summer 
afternoon  when  I  entered  it  as  my  home.  A  priest  had 
built  it ;  a  priest  had  succeeded  to  it ;  other  priestly 
men  from  time  to  time  had  dwelt  in  it ;  and  children 
born  in  its  chambers  had  grown  up  to  assume  the 
priestly  character.  It  was  awful  to  reflect  how  many 
sermons  must  have  been  written  there.  The  latest  in 
habitant  alone  —  he  by  whose  translation  to  paradise 
the  dwelling  was  left  vacant  —  had  penned  nearly 
three  thousand  discourses,  besides  the  better,  if  not 
the  greater,  number  that  gushed  living  from  his  lips. 
How  often,  no  doubt,  had  he  paced  to  and  fro  along 
the  avenue,  attuning  his  meditations  to  the  sighs  and 
gentle  murmurs,  and  deep  and  solemn  peals  of  the 
wind  among  the  lofty  tops  of  the  trees  !  In  that  vari 
ety  of  natural  utterances  he  could  find  something  ac 
cordant  with  every  passage  of  his  sermon,  were  it  of 
tenderness  or  reverential  fear.  The  boughs  over  my 
head  seemed  shadowy  with  solemn  thoughts  as  well  as 
with  rustling  leaves.  I  took  shame  to  myself  for  hav 
ing  been  so  long  a  writer  of  idle  stories,  and  ventured 
to  hope  that  wisdom  would  descend  upon  me  with  the 
falling  leaves  of  the  avenue,  and  that  I  should  light 


THE  OLD  MANSE.  18 

apon  an  intellectual  treasure  in  the  Old .  Manse  well 
worth  those  hoards  of  long-hidden  gold  which  people 
seek  for  in  moss-grown  houses.  Profound  treatises  of 
morality ;  a  layman's  unprofessional  and  therefore  un 
prejudiced  views  of  religion ;  histories  (such  as  Ban 
croft  might  have  written  had  he  taken  up  his  abode 
here  as  he  once  purposed)  bright  with  picture,  gleam 
ing  over  a  depth  of  philosophic  thought,  —  these  were 
the  works  that  might  fitly  have  flowed  from  such  a  re 
tirement.  In  the  humblest  event  I  resolved  at  least 
to  achieve  a  novel  that  should  evolve  some  deep  lesson 
and  should  possess  physical  substance  enough  to  stand 
alone. 

In  furtherance  of  my  design,  and  as  if  to  leave  me 
no  pretext  for  not  fulfilling  it,  there  was  in  the  rear  of 
the  house  the  most  delightful  little  nook  of  a  study 
that  ever  afforded  its  snug  seclusion  to  a  scholar.  It 
was  here  that  Emerson  wrote  Nature  ;  for  he  was  then 
an  inhabitant  of  the  Manse,  and  used  to  watch  the 
Assyrian  dawn  and  Paphian  sunset  and  moonrise  from 
the  summit  of  our  eastern  hill.  When  I  first  saw  the 
room  its  walls  were  blackened  with  the  smoke  of  un 
numbered  years,  and  made  still  blacker  by  the  grim 
prints  of  Puritan  ministers  that  hung  around.  These 
worthies  looked  strangely  like  bad  angels,  or  at  least 
like  men  who  had  wrestled  so  continually  and  so 
sternly  with  the  devil  that  somewhat  of  his  sooty 
fierceness  had  been  imparted  to  their  own  visages. 
They  had  all  vanished  now ;  a  cheerful  coat  of  paint 
and  golden-tinted  paper-hangings  lighted  up  the  small 
apartment;  while  the  shadow  of  a  willow-tree  that 
swept  against  the  overhanging  eaves  attempered  the 
cheery  western  sunshine.  In  place  of  the  grim  prints 
there  was  the  sweet  and  lovely  head  of  one  of  Raph 


14  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ael's  Madonnas  and  two  pleasant  little  pictures  of  the 
Lake  of  Como.  The  only  other  decorations  were  a 
purple  vase  of  flowers,  always  fresh,  and  a  bronze  one 
containing  graceful  ferns.  My  books  (few,  and  by  no 
means  choice ;  for  they  were  chiefly  such  waifs  as 
chance  had  thrown  in  my  way)  stood  in  order  about 
the  room,  seldom  to  be  disturbed. 

The  study  had  three  windows,  set  with  little,  old- 
fashioned  panes  of  glass,  each  with  a  crack  across  it, 
The  two  on  the  western  side  looked,  or  rather  peeped, 
between  the  willow  branches  down  into  the  orchard, 
with  glimpses  of  the  river  through  the  trees.  The 
third,  facing  northward,  commanded  a  broader  view 
of  the  river  at  a  spot  where  its  hitherto  obscure  waters 
gleam  forth  into  the  light  of  history.  It  was  at  this 
window  that  the  clergyman  who  then  dwelt  in  the 
Manse  stood  watching  the  outbreak  of  a  long  and 
leadly  struggle  between  two  nations  ;  he  saw  the  ir 
regular  array  of  his  parishioners  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  river  and  the  glittering  line  of  the  British  on  the 
hither  bank.  He  awaited  in  an  agony  of  suspense  the 
rattle  of  the  musketry.  It  came,  and  there  needed  but 
a  gentle  wind  to  sweep  the  battle  smoke  around  this 
quiet  house. 

Perhaps  the  reader,  whom  I  cannot  help  considering 
as  my  guest  in  the  Old  Manse  and  entitled  to  all  cour 
tesy  in  the  way  of  sight-showing,  —  perhaps  he  will 
choose  to  take  a'nearer  view  of  the  memorable  spot. 
We  stand  now  on  the  river's  brink.  It  may  well  be 
called  the  Concord,  the  river  of  peace  and  quietness ; 
for  it  is  certainly  the  most  unexcitable  and  sluggish 
stream  that  ever  loitered  imperceptibly  towards  its 
eternity  —  the  sea.  Positively,  I  had  lived  three  weeks 
beside  it  before  it  grew  quite  clear  to  my  perception 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  15 

which  way  the  current  flowed.  It  never  has  a  viva 
cious  aspect  except  when  a  northwestern  breeze  is 
vexing  its  surface  on  a  sunshiny  day.  From  the  in 
curable  indolence  of  its  nature,  the  stream  is  happily 
incapable  of  becoming  the  slave  of  human  ingenuity, 
as  is  the  fate  of  so  many  a  wild,  free  mountain  torrent. 
While  all  things  else  are  compelled  to  subserve  some 
useful  purpose,  it  idles  its  sluggish  life  away  in  lazy 
liberty,  without  turning  a  solitary  spindle  or  affording 
even  water-power  enough  to  grind  the  corn  that  grows 
upon  its  banks.  The  torpor  of  its  movement  allows  it 
nowhere  a  bright,  pebbly  shore,  nor  so  much  as  a  nar 
row  strip  of  glistening  sand,  in  any  part  of  its  coursec 
It  slumbers  between  broad  prairies,  kissing  the  long 
meadow  grass,  and  bathes  the  overhanging  boughs  of 
elder  bushes  and  willows  or  the  roots  of  elms  and  ash- 
trees  and  clumps  of  maples.  Flags  and  rushes  grow 
along  its  plashy  shore ;  the  yellow  water-lily  spreads 
its  broad,  flat  leaves  on  the  margin  ;  and  the  fragrant 
white  pond-lily  abounds,  generally  selecting  a  position 
just  so  far  from  the  river's  brink  that  it  cannot  be 
grasped  save  at  the  hazard  of  plunging  in. 

It  is  a  marvel  whence  this  perfect  flower  derives  its 
loveliness  and  perfume,  springing  as  it  does  from  the 
black  mud  over  which  the  river  sleeps,  and  where  lurk 
the  slimy  eel  and  speckled  frog  and  the  mud  turtle, 
whom  continual  washing  cannot  cleanse.  It  is  the 
very  same  black  mud  out  of  which  the  yellow  lily  sucks 
its  obscene  life  and  noisome  odor.  Thus  we  see,  too, 
in  the  world  that  some  persons  assimilate  only  what  is 
ugly  and  evil  from  the  same  moral  circumstances  which 
supply  good  and  beautiful  results  —  the  fragrance  of 
celestial  flowers  —  to  the  daily  life  of  others. 

The  reader  must  not,  from  any  testimony  of  mine, 


16  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

contract  a  dislike  towards  our  slumberous  stream.  IB 
the  light  of  a  calm  and  golden  sunset  it  becomes 
lovely  beyond  expression  ;  the  more  lovely  for  the 
quietude  that  so  well  accords  with  the  hour,  when  even 
the  wind,  after  blustering  all  day  long,  usually  hushes 
itself  to  rest.  Each  tree  and  rock,  and  every  blade  of 
grass,  is  distinctly  imaged,  and,  however  unsightly  in 
reality,  assumes  ideal  beauty  in  the  reflection.  The 
minutest  things  of  earth  and  the  broad  aspect  of  the 
firmament  are  pictured  equally  without  effort  and 
with  the  same  felicity  of  success.  All  the  sky  glows 
downward  at  our  feet ;  the  rich  clouds  float  through 
the  unruffled  bosom  of  the  stream  like  heavenly 
thoughts  through  a  peaceful  heart.  We  will  not,  then, 
malign  our  river  as  gross  and  impure  while  it  can 
glorify  itself  with  so  adequate  a  picture  of  the  heaven 
that  broods  above  it;  or,  if  we  remember  its  tawny 
hue  and  the  muddiness  of  its  bed,  let  it  be  a  symbol 
that  the  earthliest  human  soul  has  an  infinite  spiritual 
capacity  and  may  contain  the  better  world  within  its 
depths.  But,  indeed,  the  same  lesson  might  be  drawn 
out  of  any  mud  puddle  in  the  streets  of  a  city ;  and, 
being  taught  us  everywhere,  it  must  be  true. 

Come,  we  have  pursued  a  somewhat  devious  track 
in  our  walk  to  the  battle-ground.  Here  we  are,  at  the 
point  where  the  river  was  crossed  by  the  old  bridge, 
the  possession  of  which  -was  the  immediate  object  of 
the  contest.  On  the  hither  side  grow  two  or  three 
elms,  throwing  a  wide  circumference  of  shade,  but 
which  must  have  been  planted  at  some  period  within 
the  threescore  years  and  ten  that  have  passed  since 
the  battle  day.  On  the  farther  shore,  overhung  by  a 
clump  of  elder  bushes,  we  discern  the  stone  abutment 
of  the  bridge.  Looking  down  into  the  river,  I  once 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  17 

discovered  some  heavy  fragments  of  the  timbers,  all 
green  with  half  a  century's  growth  of  water  moss ;  for 
during  that  length  of  time  the  tramp  of  horses  and 
human  footsteps  has  ceased  along  this  ancient  high 
way.  The  stream  has  here  about  the  breadth  of  twenty 
strokes  of  a  swimmer's  arm,  —  a  space  not  too  wide 
when  the  bullets  were  whistling  across.  Old  people 
who  dwell  hereabouts  will  point  out  the  very  spots  on 
the  western  bank  where  our  countrymen  fell  down  and 
died ;  and  on  this  side  of  the  river  an  obelisk  of 
granite  has  grown  up  from  the  soil  that  was  fertilized 
with  British  blood.  The  monument,  not  more  than 
twenty  feet  in  height,  is  such  as  it  befitted  the  inhab 
itants  of  a  village  to  erect  in  illustration  of  a  matter 
of  local  interest  rather  than  what  was  suitable  to  com 
memorate  an  epoch  of  national  history.  Still,  by  the 
fathers  of  the  village  this  famous  deed  was  done  ;  and 
their  descendants  might  rightfully  claim  the  privilege 
of  building  a  memorial. 

A  humbler  token  of  the  fight,  yet  a  more  interest 
ing  one  than  the  granite  obelisk,  may  be  seen  close 
under  the  stone-wall  which  separates  the  battle-ground 
from  the  precincts  of  the  parsonage.  It  is  the  grave 
—  marked  by  a  small,  mossgrown  fragment  of  stone 
at  the  head  and  another  at  the  foot  —  the  grave  of 
two  British  soldiers  who  were  slain  in  the  skirmish, 
and  have  ever  since  slept  peacefully  where  Zechariah 
Brown  and  Thomas  Davis  buried  them.  Soon  was 
their  warfare  ended ;  a  weary  night  march  from  Bos 
ton,  a  rattling  volley  of  musketry  across  the  river, 
and  then  these  many  years  of  rest.  In  the  long  pro 
cession  of  slain  invaders  who  passed  into  eternity  from 
the  battle-fields  of  the  revolution,  these  two  nameless 
soldiers  led  the  way. 


18  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Lowell,  the  poet,  as  we  were  once  standing  over  his 
grave,  told  me  a  tradition  in  reference  to  one  of  the 
inhabitants  below.  The  story  has  something  deeply 
impressive,  though  its  circumstances  cannot  altogether 
be  reconciled  with  probability.  A  youth  in  the  service 
of  the  clergyman  happened  to  be  chopping  wood,  that 
April  morning,  at  the  back  door  of  the  Manse,  and 
when  the  noise  of  battle  rang  from  side  to  side  of  the 
bridge  he  hastened  across  the  intervening  field  to  see 
what  might  be  going  forward.  It  is  rather  strange,  by 
the  way,  that  this  lad  should  have  been  so  diligently  at 
work  when  the  whole  population  of  town  and  country 
were  startled  out  of  their  customary  business  by  the 
advance  of  the  British  troops.  Be  that  as  it  might, 
the  tradition  says  that  the  lad  now  left  his  task  and 
hurried  to  the  battle-field  with  the  axe  still  in  his 
hand.  The  British  had  by  this  time  retreated,  the 
Americans  were  in  pursuit ;  and  the  late  scene  of  strife 
was  thus  deserted  by  both  parties.  Two  soldiers  lay 
on  the  ground  —  one  was  a  corpse ;  but,  as  the  young 
New  Englander  drew  nigh,  the  other  Briton  raised 
himself  painfully  upon  his  hands  and  knees  and  gave 
a  ghastly  stare  into  his  face.  The  boy,  —  it  must  have 
been  a  nervous  impulse,  without  purpose,  without 
thought,  and  betokening  a  sensitive  and  impressible 
nature  rather  than  a  hardened  one,  —  the  boy  uplifted 
his  axe  and  dealt  the  wounded  soldier  a  fierce  and 
fatal  blow  upon  the  head. 

I  could  wish  that  the  grave  might  be  opened ;  for  I 
would  fain  know  whether  either  of  the  skeleton  sol 
diers  has  the  mark  of  an  axe  in  his  skull.  The  story 
comes  home  to  me  like  truth.  Oftentimes,  as  an  in 
tellectual  and  moral  exercise,  I  have  sought  to  follow 
that  poor  youth  through  his  subsequent  career,  and 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  19 

observe  how  his  soul  was  tortured  by  the  blood  stain, 
contracted  as  it  had  been  before  the  long  custom  of 
war  had  robbed  human  life  of  its  sanctity,  and  while 
it  still  seemed  murderous  to  slay  a  brother  man.  This 
one  circumstance  has  borne  more  fruit  for  me  than  all 
that  history  tells  us  of  the  fight. 

Many  strangers  come  in  the  summer  time  to  view 
the  battle-ground.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  never 
found  my  imagination  much  excited  by  this  or  any 
other  scene  of  historic  celebrity ;  nor  would  the  placid 
margin  of  the  river  have  lost  any  of  its  charm  for  me 
had  men  never  fought  and  died  there.  There  is  a 
wilder  interest  in  the  tract  of  land  —  perhaps  a  him.' 
dred  yards  in  breadth  —  which  extends  between  ths 
battle-field  and  the  northern  face  of  our  Old  Manse, 
with  its  contiguous  avenue  and  orchard.  Here,  in 
some  unknown  age,  before  the  white  man  came,  stood 
an  Indian  village,  convenient  to  the  river,  whence  its 
inhabitants  must  have  drawn  so  large  a  part  of  their 
subsistence.  The  site  is  identified  by  the  spear  and 
arrow  heads,  the  chisels,  and  other  implements  of  war, 
labor,  and  the  chase,  which  the  plough  turns  up  from 
the  soil.  You  see  a  splinter  of  stone,  half  hidden  be 
neath  a  sod ;  it  looks  like  nothing  worthy  of  note ; 
but,  if  you  have  faith  enough  to  pick  it  up,  behold  a 
relic !  Thoreau,  who  has  a  strange  faculty  of  finding 
what  the  Indians  have  left  behind  them,  first  set  me 
on  the  search  ;  and  I  afterwards  enriched  myself  with 
some  very  perfect  specimens,  so  rudely  wrought  that 
it  seemed  almost  as  if  chance  had  fashioned  them. 
Their  great  charm  consists  in  this  rudeness  and  in  the 
individuality  of  each  article,  so  different  from  the  pro 
ductions  of  civilized  machinery,  which  shapes  every 
thing  on  one  pattern.  There  is  exquisite  delight,  too* 


20  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

in  picking  up  for  one's  self  an  arrowhead  that  waa 
dropped  centuries  ago  and  has  never  been  handled 
since,  and  which  we  thus  receive  directly  from  the 
hand  of  the  red  hunter,  who  purposed  to  shoot  it  at 
his  game  or  at  an  enemy.  Such  an  incident  builds  up 
again  the  Indian  village  and  its  encircling  forest,  and 
recalls  to  life  the  painted  chiefs  and  warriors,  the 
squaws  at  their  household  toil,  and  the  children  sport 
ing  among  the  wigwams,  while  the  little  wind-rocked 
pappoose  swings  from  the  branch  of  the  tree.  It  can 
hardly  be  told  whether  it  is  a  joy  or  a  pain,  after  such 
a  momentary  vision,  to  gaze  around  in  the  broad  day 
light  of  reality  and  see  stone  fences,  white  houses, 
potato  fields,  and  men  doggedly  hoeing  in  their  shirt 
sleeves  and  homespun  pantaloons.  But  this  is  non 
sense.  The  Old  Manse  is  better  than  a  thousand  wig 
wams. 

The  Old  Manse !  We  had  almost  forgotten  it,  but 
will  return  thither  through  the  orchard.  This  was  set 
out  by  the  last  clergyman,  in  the  decline  of  his  life, 
when  the  neighbors  laughed  at  the  hoary-headed  man 
for  planting  trees  from  which  he  could  have  no  pros 
pect  of  gathering  fruit.  Even  had  that  been  the  case, 
there  was  only  so  much  the  better  motive  for  planting 
them,  in  the  pure  and  unselfish  hope  of  benefiting  his 
successors,  —  an  end  so  seldom  achieved  by  more  am 
bitious  efforts.  But  the  old  minister,  before  reaching 
his  patriarchal  age  of  ninety,  ate  the  apples  from  this 
orchard  during  many  years,  and  added  silver  and  gold 
to  his  annual  stipend  by  disposing  of  the  superfluity 
It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  him  walking  among  the  trees 
in  the  quiet  afternoons  of  early  autumn  and  picking 
up  here  and  there  a  windfall,  while  he  observes  how 
heavily  the  branches  are  weighed  down,  and  computes 


THE   OLD  MANSE,  21 

die  number  of  empty  flour  barrels  that  will  be  filled 
by  their  burden.  He  loved  each  tree,  doubtless,  as  ii 
it  had  been  his  own  child.  An  orchard  has  a  relation 
to  mankind,  and  readily  connects  itself  with  matters 
of  the  heart.  The  trees  possess  a  domestic  character ; 
they  have  lost  the  wild  nature  of  their  forest  kindred, 
and  have  grown  humanized  by  receiving  the  care  of 
man  as  well  as  by  contributing  to  his  wants.  There 
is  so  much  individuality  of  character,  too,  among  apple- 
trees  that  it  gives  them  an  additional  claim  to  be  the 
objects  of  human  interest.  One  is  harsh  and  crabbed 
in  its  manifestations ;  another  gives  us  fruit  as  mild 
as  charity.  One  is  churlish  and  illiberal,  evidently 
grudging  the  few  apples  that  it  bears;  another  ex 
hausts  itself  in  free-hearted  benevolence.  The  variety 
of  grotesque  shapes  into  which  apple-trees  contort 
themselves  has  its  effect  on  those  who  get  acquainted 
with  them:  they  stretch  out  their  crooked  branches, 
and  take  such  hold  of  the  imagination  that  we  remem 
ber  them  as  humorists  and  odd-fellows.  And  what  is 
more  melancholy  than  the  old  apple-trees  that  linger 
about  the  spot  where  once  stood  a  homestead,  but 
where  there  is  now  only  a  ruined  chimney  rising  out 
of  a  grassy  and  weed-grown  cellar  ?  They  offer  their 
fruit  to  every  wayfarer,  —  apples  that  are  bitter  sweet 
with  the  moral  of  Time's  vicissitude. 

I  have  met  with  no  other  such  pleasant  trouble  in 
the  world  as  that  of  finding  myself,  with  only  the  two 
or  three  mouths  which  it  was  my  privilege  to  feed,  the 
sole  inheritor  of  the  old  clergyman's  wealth  of  fruits. 
Throughout  the  summer  there  w%re  cherries  and  cur 
rants  ;  and  then  came  autumn,  with  his  immense  bur 
den  of  apples,  dropping  them  continually  from  hia 
overladen  shoulders  as  he  trudged  along.  In  the 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

stillest  afternoon,  if  I  listened,  the  thump  of  a  great 
apple  was  audible,  falling  without  a  breath  of  wind, 
from  the  mere  necessity  of  perfect  ripeness.  And,  be 
sides,  there  were  pear-trees,  that  flung  down  bushels 
upon  bushels  of  heavy  pears ;  and  peach-trees,  which, 
in  a  good  year,  tormented  me  with  peaches,  neither  to 
be  eaten  nor  kept,  nor,  without  labor  and  perplexity, 
to  be  given  away.  The  idea  of  an  infinite  generosity 
and  exhaustless  bounty  on  the  part  of  our  Mother 
Nature  was  well  worth  obtaining  through  such  cares 
as  these.  That  feeling  can  be  enjoyed  in  perfec 
tion  only  by  the  natives  of  summer  islands,  where  the 
bread-fruit,  the  cocoa,  the  palm,  and  the  orange  grow 
spontaneously  and  hold  forth  the  ever-ready  meal ;  but 
likewise  almost  as  well  by  a  man  long  habituated  to 
city  life,  who  plunges  into  such  a  solitude  as  that  of 
the  Old  Manse,  where  he  plucks  the  fruit  of  trees  that 
he  did  not  plant,  and  which  therefore,  to  my  heterodox 
taste,  bear  the  closest  resemblance  to  those  that  grew 
in  Eden.  It  has  been  an  apothegm  these  five  thou 
sand  years,  that  toil  sweetens  the  bread  it  earns.  For 
my  part  (speaking  from  hard  experience,  acquired 
while  belaboring  the  rugged  furrows  of  Brook  Farm), 
I  relish  best  the  free  gifts  of  Providence. 

Not  that  it  can  be  disputed  that  the  light  toil  requi 
site  to  cultivate  a  moderately-sized  garden  imparts  such 
zest  to  kitchen  vegetables  as  is  never  found  in  those 
of  the  market  gardener.  Childless  men,  if  they  would 
know  something  of  the  bliss  of  paternity,  should  plant 
a  seed,  —  be  it  squash,  bean,  Indian  corn,  or  perhaps  a 
mere  flower  or  worthless  weed,  —  should  plant  it  with 
their  own  hands,  and  nurse  it  from  infancy  to  ma 
turity  altogether  by  their  own  care.  If  there  be  not 
too  many  of  them,  each  individual  plant  becomes  an 


THE    OLD  MANSE.  23 

object  of  separate  interest.  My  garden,  that  skirted 
the  avenue  of  the  Manse,  was  of  precisely  the  right 
extent.  An  hour  or  two  of  morning  labor  was  all  that 
it  required.  But  I  used  to  visit  and  revisit  it  a  dozen 
times  a  day,  and  stand  in  deep  contemplation  over  my 
vegetable  progeny  with  a  love  that  nobody  could  share 
or  conceive  of  who  had  never  taken  part  in  the  pro 
cess  of  creation.  It  was  one  of  the  most  bewitching 
sights  in  the  world  to  observe  a  hill  of  beans  thrust 
ing  aside  the  soil,  or  a  row  of  early  peas  just  peeping 
forth  sufficiently  to  trace  a  line  of  delicate  green. 
Later  in  the  season  the  humming-birds  were  attracted 
by  the  blossoms  of  a  peculiar  variety  of  bean ;  and 
they  were  a  joy  to  me,  those  little  spiritual  visitants, 
for  deigning  to  sip  airy  food  out  of  my  nectar  cups. 
Multitudes  of  bees  used  to  bury  themselves  in  the  yel 
low  blossoms  of  the  summer  squashes.  This,  too,  was 
a  deep  satisfaction;  although  when  they  had  laden 
themselves  with  sweets'  they  flew  away  to  some  un 
known  hive,  which  would  give  back  nothing  in  re 
quital  of  what  my  garden  had  contributed.  But  I  was 
glad  thus  to  fling  a  benefaction  upon  the  passing 
breeze  with  the  certainty  that  somebody  must  profit 
by  it,  and  that  there  would  be  a  little  more  honey  in 
the  world  to  allay  the  sourness  and  bitterness  which 
mankind  is  always  complaining  of.  Yes,  indeed  ;  my 
life  was  the  sweeter  for  that  honey. 

Speaking  of  summer  squashes,  I  must  say  a  word 
of  their  beautiful  and  varied  forms.  They  pre° 
sented  an  endless  diversity  of  urns  and  vases,  shal 
low  or  deep,  scalloped  or  plain,  moulded  in  patterns 
which  a  sculptor  would  do  well  to  copy,  since  Art  has 
never  invented  anything  more  graceful.  A  hundred 
Squashes  in  the  garden  were  worthy,  in  my  eyes  at 


24  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

least,  of  being  rendered  indestructible  in  marble.  If 
ever  Providence  (but  I  know  it  never  will)  should 
assign  me  a  superfluity  of  gold,  part  of  it  shall  be 
expended  for  a  service  of  plate,  or  most  delicate  por 
celain,  to  be  wrought  into  the  shapes  of  summer 
squashes  gathered  from  vines  which  I  will  plant  with 
my  own  hands.  As  dishes  for  containing  vegetables 
they  would  be  peculiarly  appropriate. 

But  not  merely  the  squeamish  love  of  the  beautiful 
was  gratified  by  my  toil  in  the  kitchen  garden.  There 
was  a  hearty  enjoyment,  likewise,  in  observing  the 
growth  of  the  crook-necked  winter  squashes,  from  the 
first  little  bulb,  with  the  withered  blossom  adhering  to 
it,  until  they  lay  strewn  upon  the  soil,  big,  round  fel 
lows,  hiding  their  heads  beneath  the  leaves,  but  turn 
ing  up  their  great  yellow  rotundities  to  the  noontide 
sun.  Gazing  at  them,  I  felt  that  by  my  agency  some 
thing  worth  living  for  had  been  done.  A  new  sub 
stance  was  born  into  the  world.  They  were  real  and 
tangible  existences,  which  the  mind  could  seize  hold 
of  and  rejoice  in.  A  cabbage,  too,  —  especially  the 
early  Dutch  cabbage,  which  swells  to  a  monstrous  cir 
cumference,  until  its  ambitious  heart  often  bursts 
asunder,  —  is  a  matter  to  be  proud  of  when  we  can 
claim  a  share  with  the  earth  and  sky  in  producing  it. 
But,  after  all,  the  hugest  pleasure  is  reserved  until 
these  vegetable  children  of  ours  are  smoking  on  the 
table,  and  we,  like  Saturn,  make  a  meal  of  them. 

What  with  the  river,  the  battle-field,  the  orchard 
and  the  garden,  the  reader  begins  to  despair  of  find 
ing  his  way  back  into  the  Old  Manse.  But  in  agree 
able  weather  it  is  the  truest  hospitality  to  keep  him 
out-of-doors.  I  never  grew  quite  acquainted  with  my 
habitation  till  a  long  spell  of  sulky  rain  had  confined 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  25 

me  beneath  its  roof.  There  could  not  be  a  more  som 
bre  aspect  of  external  Nature  than  as  then  seen  from 
the  windows  of  my  study.  The  great  willow-tree  had 
caught  and  retained  among  its  leaves  a  whole  cata 
ract  of  water,  to  be  shaken  down  at  intervals  by  the 
frequent  gusts  of  wind.  All  day  long,  and  for  a  week 
together,  the  rain  was  drip-drip-dripping  and  splash* 
splash-splashing  from  the  eaves,  and  bubbling  and 
foaming  into  the  tubs  beneath  the  spouts.  The  old, 
unpainted  shingles  of  the  house  and  out-buildings 
were  black  with  moisture  ;  and  the  mosses  of  ancient 
growth  upon  the  walls  looked  green  and  fresh,  as  if 
they  were  the  newest  things  and  afterthought  of  Time- 
The  usually  mirrored  surface  of  the  river  was  blurred 
by  an  infinity  of  raindrops  ;  the  whole  landscape  had 
a  completely  water-soaked  appearance,  conveying  the 
impression  that  the  earth  was  wet  through  like  a 
sponge ;  while  the  summit  of  a  wooded  hill,  about  a 
mile  distant,  was  enveloped  in  a  dense  mist,  where  the 
demon  of  the  tempest  seemed  to  have  his  abiding- 
place  and  to  be  plotting  still  direr  inclemencies. 

Nature  has  no  kindness,  no  hospitality,  during  a 
rain.  In  the  fiercest  heat  of  sunny  days  she  retains 
a  secret  mercy,  and  welcomes  the  wayfarer  to  shady 
nooks  of  the  woods  whither  the  sun  cannot  penetrate  ; 
but  she  provides  no  shelter  against  her  storms.  It 
makes  us  shiver  to  think  of  those  deep,  umbrageous 
recesses,  those  overshadowing  banks,  where  we  found 
such  enjoyment  during  the  sultry  afternoons.  Not 
a  twig  of  foliage  there  but  would  dash  a  little  shower 
into  our  faces.  Looking  reproachfully  towards  the 
impenetrable  sky,  —  if  sky  there  be  above  that  dismal 
uniformity  of  cloud,  —  we  are  apt  to  murmur  against 
the  whole  system  of  the  universe,  since  it  involves  the 


26  MOSSED  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

extinction  of  so  many  summer  days  in  so  short  a  life 
by  the  hissing  and  spluttering  rain.  In  such  spells  of 
weather  —  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  such  weather  came 
—  Eve's  bower  in  paradise  must  have  been  but  a  cheer- 
less  and  aguish  kind  of  shelter,  nowise  comparable  to 
the  old  parsonage,  which  had  resources  of  its  own  to 
beguile  the  week's  imprisonment.  The  idea  of  sleep 
ing  on  a  couch  of  wet  roses ! 

Happy  the  man  who  in  a  rainy  day  can  betake  him 
self  to  a  huge  garret,  stored,  like  that  of  the  Manse, 
with  lumber  that  each  generation  has  left  behind  it 
from  a  period  before  the  revolution.  Our  garret  was 
an  arched  hall,  dimly  illuminated  through  small  and 
dusty  windows  ,  it  was  but  a  twilight  at  the  best ;  and 
there  were  nooks,  or  rather  caverns,  of  deep  obscurity, 
the  secrets  of  which  I  never  learned,  being  too  reverent 
of  their  dust  and  cobwebs.  The  beams  and  rafters, 
roughly  hewn  and  with  strips  of  bark  still  on  them, 
and  the  rude  masonry  of  the  chimneys,  made  the  gar 
ret  look  wild  and  uncivilized,  —  an  aspect  unlike  what 
was  seen  elsewhere  in  the  quiet  and  decorous  old  house. 
But  on  one  side  there  was  a  little  whitewashed  apart 
ment  which  bore  the  traditionary  title  of  the  Saint's 
Chamber,  because  holy  men  in  their  youth  had  slept 
and  studied  and  prayed  there.  With  its  elevated  re 
tirement,  its  one  window,  its  small  fireplace,  and  its 
closet,  convenient  for  an  oratory,  it  was  the  very  spot 
where  a  young  man  might  inspire  himself  with  solemn 
enthusiasm  and  cherish  saintly  dreams.  The  occu 
pants,  at  various  epochs,  had  left  brief  records  and 
ejaculations  inscribed  upon  the  walls.  There,  toof 
hung  a  tattered  and  shrivelled  roll  of  canvas,  which 
on  inspection  proved  to  be  the  forcibly  wrought  pic- 
toe  of  a  clergyman,  in  wig,  band,  and  gown,  holding 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  27 

ft  Bible  in  his  hand.  As  I  turned  his  face  towards  the 
light  he  eyed  me  with  an  air  of  authority  such  as  men 
of  his  profession  seldom  assume  in  our  day£.  The 
original  had  been  pastor  of  the  parish  more  than  a 
century  ago,  a  friend  of  Whitefield,  and  almost  his 
equal  in  fervid  eloquence.  I  bowed  before  the  effigy 
of  the  dignified  divine,  and  felt  as  if  I  had  now  met 
face  to  face  with  the  ghost  by  whom,  as  there  was  rea 
son  to  apprehend,  the  Manse  was  haunted. 

Houses  of  any  antiquity  in  New  England  are  so 
invariably  possessed  with  spirits  that  the  matter  seems 
hardly  worth  alluding  to.  Our  ghost  used  to  heave 
deep  sighs  in  a  particular  corner  of  the  parlor,  and 
sometimes  rustled  paper,  as  if  he  were  turning  over  a 
fiermon  in  the  long  upper  entry,  —  where  nevertheless 
he  was  invisible  in  spite  of  the  bright  moonshine  that 
fell  through  the  eastern  window.  Not  improbably  he 
wished  me  to  edit  and  publish  a  selection  from  a  chest 
full  of  manuscript  discourses  that  stood  in  the  garret. 
Once,  while  Hillard  and  other  friends  sat  talking  with 
us  in  the  twilight,  there  came  a  rustling  noise  as  of  a 
minister's  silk  gown,  sweeping  through  the  very  midst 
of  the  company  so  closely  as  almost  to  brush  against 
the  chairs.  Still  there  was  nothing  visible.  A  yet 
stranger  business  was  that  of  a  ghostly  servant  maid, 
who  used  to  be  heard  in  the  kitchen  at  deepest  mid 
night,  grinding  coffee,  cooking,  ironing,  —  performing, 
in  short,  all  kinds  of  domestic  labor,  —  although  no 
traces  of  anything  accomplished  could  be  detected  the 
next  morning.  Some  neglected  duty  of  her  servitude 
—  some  ill-starched  ministerial  band  —  disturbed  the 
poor  damsel  in  her  grave  and  kept  her  at  work  with 
out  any  wages. 

But  to  return  from  this  digression.     A  part  of  my 


28  MO&SES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

predecessor's  library  was  stored  in  the  garret,  —  na 
unfit  receptacle  indeed  for  such  dreary  trash  as  com 
prised  the  greater  number  of  volumes.  The  old  books 
would  have  been  worth  nothing  at  an  auction.  In  this 
venerable  garret,  however,  they  possessed  an  interest9 
quite  apart  from  their  literary  value,  as  heirlooms, 
many  of  which  had  been  transmitted  down  through  a 
series  of  consecrated  hands  from  the  days  of  the  mighty 
Puritan  divines.  Autographs  of  famous  names  were  to 
be  seen  in  faded  ink  on  some  of  their  flyleaves ;  and 
there  were  marginal  observations  or  interpolated  pages 
closely  covered  with  manuscript  in  illegible  shorthand, 
perhaps  concealing  matter  of  profound  truth  and  wis 
dom.  The  world  will  never  be  the  better  for  it.  A 
few  of  the  books  were  Latin  folios,  written  by  Cath 
olic  authors;  others  demolished  Papistry,  as  with  a 
sledge-hammer,  in  plain  English.  A  dissertation  on 
the  book  of  Job  —  which  only  Job  himself  could  have 
had  patience  to  read  —  filled  at  least  a  score  of  small, 
thickset  quartos,  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  volumes  to 
a  chapter.  Then  there  was  a  vast  folio  body  of  divin 
ity  —  too  corpulent  a  body,  it  might  be  feared,  to  com 
prehend  the  spiritual  element  of  religion.  Volumes  of 
this  form  dated  back  two  hundred  years  or  more,  and 
were  generally  bound  in  black  leather,  exhibiting  pre 
cisely  such  an  appearance  as  we  should  attribute  to 
books  of  enchantment.  Others  equally  antique  were 
of  a  size  proper  to  be  carried  in  the  large  waistcoat 
pockets  of  old  times,  —  diminutive,  but  as  black  as 
their  bulkier  brethren,  and  abundantly  interfused  with 
Greek  and  Latin  quotations.  These  little  old  volumes 
impressed  me  as  if  they  had  been  intended  for  very 
large  ones,  but  had  been  unfortunately  blighted  at  ail 
early  stage  of  their  growth. 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  29 

The  rain  pattered  upon  the  roof  and  the  sky  gloomed 
through  the  dusty  garret  windows,  while  I  burrowed 
among  these  venerable  books  in  search  of  any  living 
thought  which  should  burn  like  a  coal  of  fire,  or  glow 
like  an  inextinguishable  gem,  beneath  the  dead  trump 
ery  that  had  long  hidden  it.  But  I  found  no  such 
treasure ;  all  was  dead  alike ;  and  I  could  not  but 
muse  deeply  and  wonderingly  upon  the  humiliating 
fact  that  the  works  of  man's  intellect  decay  like  those 
of  his  hands.  Thought  grows  mouldy.  What  was 
good  and  nourishing  food  for  the  spirits  of  one  gener 
ation  affords  no  sustenance  for  the  next.  Books  of  re 
ligion,  however,  cannot  be  considered  a  fair  test  of  the 
enduring  and  vivacious  properties  of  human  thought, 
because  such  books  so  seldom  really  touch  upon  their 
ostensible  subject,  and  have,  therefore,  so  little  busi 
ness  to  be  written  at  all.  So  long  as  an  unlettered 
soul  can  attain  to  saving  grace,  there  would  seem  to  be 
no  deadly  error  in  holding  theological  libraries  to  be 
accumulations  of,  for  the  most  part,  stupendous  imper 
tinence. 

Many  of  the  books  had  accrued  in  the  latter  years 
of  the  last  clergyman's  lifetime.  These  threatened  to 
'be  of  even  less  interest  than  the  elder  works,  a  century 
hence,  to  any  curious  inquirer  who  should  then  rum 
mage  them  as  I  was  doing  now.  Volumes  of  the 
"  Liberal  Preacher "  and  "  Christian  Examiner,"  oc 
casional  sermons,  controversial  pamphlets,  tracts,  and 
other  productions  of  a  like  fugitive  nature  took  the 
place  of  the  thick  and  heavy  volumes  of  past  time.  In 
a  physical  point  of  view  there  was  much  the  same  dif 
ference  as  between  a  feather  and  a  lump  of  lead ;  but, 
intellectually  regarded,  the  specific  gravity  of  old  and 
new  was  about  upon  a  par.  Both  also  were  alike 


50  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

frigid.  The  elder  books,  nevertheless,  seemed  to  have 
been  earnestly  written,  and  might  be  conceived  to  have 
possessed  warmth  at  some  former  period ;  although, 
with  the  lapse  of  time,  the  heated  masses  had  cooled 
down  even  to  the  freezing  point.  The  frigidity  of  the 
modern  productions,  on  the  other  hand,  was  character 
istic  and  inherent,  and  evidently  had  little  to  do  with 
the  writer's  qualities  of  mind  and  heart.  In  fine,  of 
this  whole  dusty  heap  of  literature  I  tossed  aside  all 
the  sacred  part,  and  felt  myself  none  the  less  a  Chris 
tian  for  eschewing  it.  There  appeared  no  hope  of 
either  mounting  to  the  better  world  on  a  Gothic  stair 
case  of  ancient  folios  or  of  flying  thither  on  the  wings 
of  a  modern  tract. 

Nothing,  strange  to  say,  retained  any  sap  except 
what  had  been  written  for  the  passing  day  and  year 
without  the  remotest  pretension  or  idea  of  permanence. 
There  were  a  few  old  newspapers,  and  still  older  alma 
nacs,  which  reproduced  to  my  mental  eye  the  epochs 
when  they  had  issued  from  the  press  with  a  distinct 
ness  that  was  altogether  unaccountable.  It  was  as  if 
I  had  found  bits  of  magic  looking-glass  among  the 
books,  with  the  images  of  a  vanished  century  in  them. 
I  turned  my  eyes  towards  the  tattered  picture  above 
mentioned,  and  asked  of  the  austere  divine  wherefore 
it  was  that  he  and  his  brethren,  after  the  most  painful 
rummaging  and  groping  into  their  minds,  had  been 
able  to  produce  nothing  half  so  real  as  these  news 
paper  scribblers  and  almanac  makers  had  thrown  off 
in  the  effervescence  of  a  moment.  The  portrait  re 
sponded  not ;  so  I  sought  an  answer  for  myself.  It  is 
the  age  itself  that  writes  newspapers  and  almanacs, 
which,  therefore,  have  a  distinct  purpose  and  meaning 
at  the  time,  and  a  kind  of  intelligible  truth  for  att 


TEE   OLD  MANSE.  31 

times ;  whereas  most  other  works  —  being  written  by 
men  who,  in  the  very  act,  set  themselves  apart  from 
their  age  —  are  likely  to  possess  little  significance 
when  new,  and  none  at  all  when  old.  Genius,  indeed, 
melts  many  ages  into  one,  and  thus  effects  something 
permanent,  yet  still  with  a  similarity  of  office  to  that 
of  the  more  ephemeral  writer.  A  work  of  genius  is 
but  the  newspaper  of  a  century,  or  perchance  of  a 
hundred  centuries. 

Lightly  as  I  have  spoken  of  these  old  books,  there 
yet  lingers  with  me  a  superstitious  reverence  for  liter 
ature  of  all  kinds.  A  bound  volume  has  a  charm  in 
my  eyes  similar  to  what  scraps  of  manuscript  possess 
for  the  good  Mussulman.  He  imagines  that  those 
wind-wafted  records  are  perhaps  hallowed  by  some 
sacred  verse ;  and  I,  that  every  new  book  or  antique 
one  may  contain  the  "  open  sesame,"  —  the  spell  to 
disclose  treasures  hidden  in  some  unsuspected  cave  of 
Truth.  Thus  it  was  not  without  sadness  that  I  turned 
away  from  the  library  of  the  Old  Manse. 

Blessed  was  the  sunshine  when  it  came  again  at  the 
close  of  another  stormy  day,  beaming  from  the  edge 
of  the  western  horizon ;  while  the  massive  firmament 
•j>f  clouds  threw  down  all  the  gloom  it  could,  but  served 
only  to  kindle  the  golden  light  into  a  more  brilliant 
glow  by  the  strongly  contrasted  shadows.  Heaven 
smiled  at  the  earth,  so  long  unseen,  from  beneath  its 
heavy  eyelid.  To-morrow  for  the  hill-tops  and  the 
wood  paths. 

Or  it  might  be  that  Ellery  Channing  came  up  the 
avenue  to  join  me  in  a  fishing  excursion  on  the  river. 
Strange  and  happy  times  were  those  when  we  cast 
aside  all  irksome  forms  and  strait-laced  habitudes,  and 
delivered  ourselves  up  to  the  free  air,  to  live  like 


32  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

the  Indians  or  any  less  conventional  race  during  one 
bright  semicircle  of  the  sun.  Rowing  our  boat  against 
the  current,  between  wide  meadows,  we  turned  aside 
into  the  Assabeth.  A  more  lovely  stream  than  this, 
for  a  mile  above  its  junction  with  the  Concord,  has 
never  flowed  on  earth, —  nowhere,  indeed,  except  to 
lave  the  interior  regions  of  a  poet's  imagination.  It 
is  sheltered  from  the  breeze  by  woods  and  a  hill-side ; 
so  that  elsewhere  there  might  be  a  hurricane,  and  here 
scarcely  a  ripple  across  the  shaded  water.  The  cur 
rent  lingers  along  so  gently  that  the  mere  force  of  the 
boatman's  will  seems  sufficient  to  propel  his  craft 
against  it.  It  comes  flowing  softly  through  the  mid 
most  privacy  and  deepest  heart  of  a  wood  which  whis 
pers  it  to  be  quiet ;  while  the  stream  whispers  back 
again  from  its  sedgy  borders,  as  if  river  and  wood 
were  hushing  one  another  to  sleep.  Yes;  the  river 
sleeps  along  its  course  and  dreams  of  the  sky  and 
of  the  clustering  foliage,  amid  which  fall  showers  of 
broken  sunlight,  imparting  specks  of  vivid  cheerful 
ness,  in  contrast  with  the  quiet  depth  of  the  prevailing 
tint.  Of  all  this  scene,  the  slumbering  river  has  a 
dream  picture  in  its  bosom.  Which,  after  all,  was  the 
most  real  —  the  picture,  or  the  original? — the  objects 
palpable  to  our  grosser  senses,  or  their  apotheosis  in 
the  stream  beneath  ?  Surely  the  disembodied  images 
stand  in  closer  relation  to  the  soul.  But  both  the 
original  and  the  reflection  had  here  an  ideal  charm 
and,  had  it  been  a  thought  more  wild,  I  could  have 
fancied  that  this  river  had  strayed  forth  out  of  the 
rich  scenery  of  my  companion's  inner  world ;  only  the 
vegetation  along  its  banks  should  then  have  had  an 
Oriental  character. 

Gentle  and  unobtrusive  as  the  river  is,  yet  the  tran- 


THE    OLD  MANSE.  33 

qoil  woods  seem  hardly  satisfied  to  allow  it  passage. 
The  trees  are  rooted  on  the  very  verge  of  the  water, 
and  dip  their  pendent  branches  into  it.  At  one  spot 
there  is  a  lofty  bank,  on  the  slope  of  which  grow 
some  hemlocks,  declining  across  the  stream  with  out 
stretched  arms,  as  if  resolute  to  take  the  plunge.  In 
other  places  the  banks  are  almost  on  a  level  with  the 
water ;  so  that  the  quiet  congregation  of  trees  set  their 
feet  in  the  flood,  and  are  fringed  with  foliage  down 
to  the  surface.  Cardinal  flowers  kindle  their  spiral 
flames  and  illuminate  the  dark  nooks  among  the 
shrubbery.  The  pond-lily  grows  abundantly  along  the 
margin  —  that  delicious  flower,  which,  as  Thoreau 
tells  me,  opens  its  virgin  bosom  to  the  first  sunlight 
and  perfects  its  being  through  the  magic  of  that 
genial  kiss.  He  has  beheld  beds  of  them  unfolding 
in  due  succession  as  the  sunrise  stole  gradually  from 
flower  to  flower  —  a  sight  not  to  be  hoped  for  unless 
when  a  poet  adjusts  his  inward  eye  to  a  proper  focus 
with  the  outward  organ.  Grape-vines  here  and  there 
twine  themselves  around  shrub  and  tree  and  hang 
their  clusters  over  the  water  within  reach  of  the  boat 
man's  hand.  Oftentimes  they  unite  two  trees  of  alien 
race  in  an  inextricable  twine,  marrying  the  hemlock 
and  the  maple  against  their  will,  and  enriching  them 
with  a  purple  offspring  of  which  neither  is  the  parent. 
One  of  these  ambitious  parasites  has  climbed  into  the 
upper  branches  of  a  tall,  white  pine,  and  is  still  as- 
?ending  from  bough  to  bough,  unsatisfied  till  it  shall 
crown  the  tree's  airy  summit  with  a  wreath  of  its 
broad  foliage  and  a  cluster  of  its  grapes. 

The  winding  course  of  the  stream  continually  shu 
aut  the  scene  behind  us,  and  revealed  as  calm  and 
lovely  a  one  before.     We  glided  from  depth  to  depth, 

YOL,.  II.  3 


84  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

and  breathed  new  seclusion  at  every  turn.  The  shj 
kingfisher  flew  from  the  withered  branch  close  at  hand 
to  another  at  a  distance,  uttering  a  shrill  cry  of  anger 
or  alarm.  Ducks  that  had  been  floating  there  since 
the  preceding  eve  were  startled  at  our  approach,  and 
skimmed  along  the  glassy  river,  breaking  its  dark  sur 
face  with  a  bright  streak.  The  pickerel  leaped  from 
among  the  lily-pads.  The  turtle,  sunning  itself  upon 
a  rock  or  at  the  root  of  a  tree,  slid  suddenly  into  the 
water  with  a  plunge*  The  painted  Indian  who  pad 
dled  his  canoe  along  the  Assabeth  three  hundred  years 
ago  could  hardly  have  seen  a  wilder  gentleness  dis 
played  upon  its  banks  and  reflected  in  its  bosom  than 
we  did.  Nor  could  the  same  Indian  have  prepared 
his  noontide  meal  with  more  simplicity.  We  drew 
up  our  skiff  at  some  point  where  the  overarching 
shade  formed  a  natural  bower,  and  there  kindled  a 
fire  with  the  pine  cones  and  decayed  branches  that  lay 
strewn  plentifully  around.  Soon  the  smoke  ascended 
among  the  trees,  impregnated  with  a  savory  incense, 
not  heavy,  dull,  and  surfeiting,  like  the  steam  of 
cookery  within  doors,  but  sprightly  and  piquant.  The 
smell  of  our  feast  was  akin  to  the  woodland  odors  with 
which  it  mingled:  there  was  no  sacrilege  committed 
by  our  intrusion  there:  the  sacred  solitude  was  hos 
pitable,  and  granted  us  free  leave  to  cook  and  eat  in 
the  recess  that  was  at  once  our  kitchen  and  banquet 
ing  hall.  It  is  strange  what  humble  offices  may  be 
performed  in  a  beautiful  scene  without  destroying  its 
poetry.  Our  fire,  red  gleaming  among  the  trees,  and 
we  beside  it,  busied  with  culinary  rites  and  spread 
ing  out  our  meal  on  a  mossgrown  log,  all  seemed 
in  unison  with  the  river  gliding  by  and  the  foliage 
rustling  over  us.  And,  what  was  strangest,  neither 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  35 

did  our  mirth  seem  to  disturb  the  propriety  of  the 
solemn  woods;  although  the  hobgoblins  of  the  old 
wilderness  and  the  will-of-the-wisps  that  glimmered  in 
the  marshy  places  might  have  come  trooping  to  share 
our  table  talk,  and  have  added  their  shrill  laughter  to 
our  merriment.  It  was  the  very  spot  in  which  to  ut 
ter  the  extremest  nonsense  or  the  profoundest  wisdom, 
or  that  ethereal  product  of  the  mind  which  partakes 
of  both,  and  may  become  one  or  the  other,  in  corre- 
«T)ondence  with  the  faith  and  insight  of  the  auditor. 

So  amid  sunshine  and  shadow,  rustling  leaves  and 
sighing  waters,  up  gushed  our  talk  like  the  babble  of 
a  fountain.  The  evanescent  spray  was  Ellery's  ;  and 
his,  too,  the  lumps  of  golden  thought  that  lay  glim 
mering  in  the  fountain's  bed  and  brightened  both  our 
faces  by  the  reflection.  Could  he  have  drawn  out  that 
virgin  gold  and  stamped  it  with  the  mint  mark  that 
alone  gives  currency,  the  world  might  have  had  the 
profit,  and  he  the  fame.  My  mind  was  the  richer 
merely  by  the  knowledge  that  it  was  there.  But  the 
chief  profit  of  those  wild  days  to  him  and  me  lay,  not 
in  any  definite  idea,  not  in  any  angular  or  rounded 
truth,  which  we  dug  out  of  the  shapeless  mass  of  prob 
lematical  stuff,  but  in  the  freedom  which  we  thereby 
won  from  all  custom  and  conventionalism  and  fetter 
ing  influences  of  man  on  man.  We  were  so  free  to 
day  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  slaves  again  to-mor- 
row.  When  we  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  house  or 
trod  the  thronged  pavements  of  a  city,  still  the  leaves 
of  the  trees  that  overhang  the  Assabeth  were  whis 
pering  to  us.  "  Be  free  !  be  free  !  "  Therefore  along 
that  shady -river-bank  there  are  spots,  marked  with  a 
heap  of  ashes  and  half-consumed  brands,  only  less 
sacred  in  my  remembrance  than  the  hearth  of  a  house- 
hold  fire. 


36  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

And  yet  how  sweet,  as  we  floated  homeward  adown 
fche  golden  river  at  sunset,  —  how  sweet  was  it  to  re 
turn  within  the  system  of  human  society,  not  as  to 
a  dungeon  and  a  chain,  but  as  to  a  stately  edifice, 
whence  we  could  go  forth  at  will  into  statelier  simplic 
ity  !  How  gently,  too,  did  the  sight  of  the  Old  Manse, 
best  seen  from  the  river,  overshadowed  with  its  willow 
and  all  environed  about  with  the  foliage  of  its  orchard 
and  avenue,  —  how  gently  did  its  gray,  homely  aspect 
rebuke  the  speculative  extravagances  of  the  day !  It 
had  grown  sacred  in  connection  with  the  artificial  life 
against  which  we  inveighed ;  it  had  been  a  home  for 
many  years  in  spite  of  all ;  it  was  my  home  too ;  and, 
with  these  thoughts,  it  seemed  to  me  tha1"  all  the  arti 
fice  and  conventionalism  of  life  was  but  an  impalpable 
thinness  upon  its  surface,  and  that  the  depth  below 
was  none  the  worse  for  it.  Once,  as  we  turned  our 
boat  to  the  bank,  there  was  a  cloud,  in  the  shape  of  an 
immensely  gigantic  figure  of  a  hound,  couched  above 
the  house,  as  if  keeping  guard  over  it.  Gazing  at  this 
symbol,  I  prayed  that  the  upper  influences  might  long 
protect  the  institutions  that  had  grown  out  of  the  heart 
of  mankind. 

If  ever  my  readers  should  decide  to  give  up  civil 
ized  life,  cities,  houses,  and  whatever  moral  or  mate 
rial  enormities  in  addition  to  these  the  perverted  inge 
nuity  of  our  race  has  contrived,  let  it  be  in  the  early 
autumn.  Then  Nature  will  love  him  better  than  at 
any  other  season,  and  will  take  him  to  her  bosom 
with  a  more  motherly  tenderness.  I  could  scarcely 
endure  the  roof  of  the  old  house  above  me  in  those 
first  autumnal  days.  How  early  in  the  summer,  too, 
the  prophecy  of  autumn  comes  !  Earlier  in  some  years 
than  in  others ;  sometimes  even  in  the  first  weeks  of 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  37 

July.  There  is  no  other  feeling  like  what  is  caused 
by  this  faint,  doubtful,  yet  real  perception  —  if  it 
be  not  rather  a  foreboding  —  of  the  year's  decay,  so 
blessedly  sweet  and  sad  in  the  same  breath. 

Did  I  say  that  there  was  no  feeling  like  it  ?  Ah, 
but  there  is  a  half-acknowledged  melancholy  like  to 
this  when  we  stand  in  the  perfected  vigor  of  our  life 
and  feel  that  Time  has  now  given  us  all  his  flowers, 
and  that  the  next  work  of  his  never  idle  fingers  must 
be  to  steal  them  one  by  one  away. 

I  have  forgotten  whether  the  song  of  the  cricket  be 
not  as  early  a  token  of  autumn's  approach  as  any 
other,  —  that  song  which  may  be  called  an  audible 
stillness ;  for  though  very  loud  and  heard  afar,  yet 
the  mind  does  not  take  note  of  it  as  a  sound,  so  com 
pletely  is  its  individual  existence  merged  among  the 
accompanying  characteristics  of  the  season.  Alas  for 
the  pleasant  summer  time !  In  August  the  grass  is  still 
verdant  on  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys ;  the  foliage  of 
the  trees  is  as  dense  as  ever,  and  as  green ;  the  flowers 
gleam  forth  in  richer  abundance  along  the  margin  of 
the  river,  and  by  the  stone  walls,  and  deep  among  the 
woods ;  the  days,  too,  are  as  fervid  now  as  they  were 
a  month  ago ;  and  yet  in  every  breath  of  wind  and  in 
every  beam  of  sunshine  we  hear  the  whispered  fare 
well  and  behold  the  parting  smile  of  a  dear  friend. 
There  is  a  coolness  amid  all  the  heat,  a  mildness  in  the 
blazing  noon.  Not  a  breeze  can  stir  but  it  thrills  us 
with  the  breath  of  autumn.  A  pensive  glory  is  seen 
in  the  far  golden  gleams,  among  the  shadows  of  the 
trees.  The  flowers  —  even  the  brightest  of  them,  and 
they  are  the  most  gorgeous  of  the  year  —  have  this 
gentle  sadness  wedded  to  their  pomp,  and  typify  the 
character  of  the  delicious  time  each  within  itself.  The 
brilliant  cardinal  flower  has  never  seemed  gay  to  me. 


88  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE.  ' 

Still  later  in  the  season  Nature's  tenderness  waxes 
stronger.  It  is  impossible  not  to  be  fond  of  our  mother 
now ;  for  she  is  so  fond  of  us !  At  other  periods  she 
does  not  make  this  impression  on  me,  or  only  at  rare 
intervals ;  but  in  those  genial  days  of  autumn,  when 
she  has  perfected  her  harvests  and  accomplished  every 
needful  thing  that  was  given  her  to  do,  then  she  over 
flows  with  a  blessed  superfluity  of  love.  She  has 
leisure  to  caress  her  children  now.  It  is  good  to  be 
alive  at  such  times.  Thank  Heaven  for  breath  —  yes, 
for  mere  breath  —  when  it  is  made  up  of  a  heavenly 
breeze  like  this !  It  comes  with  a  real  kiss  upon  our 
cheeks  ;  it  would  linger  fondly  around  us  if  it  might ; 
but,  since  it  must  be  gone,  it  embraces  us  with  its  whole 
kindly  heart  and  passes  onward  to  embrace  likewise 
the  next  thing  that  it  meets.  A  blessing  is  flung  abroad 
and  scattered  far  and  wide  over  the  earth,  to  be  gath 
ered  up  by  all  who  choose.  I  recline  upon  the  still 
unwithered  grass  and  whisper  to  myself,  "  O  perfect 
day !  O  beautiful  world !  O  beneficent  God !  "  And 
it  is  the  promise  of  a  blessed  eternity ;  for  our  Creator 
would  never  have  made  such  lovely  days  and  have 
given  us  the  deep  hearts  to  enjoy  them,  above  and  be 
yond  all  thought,  unless  we  were  meant  to  be  immortal. 
This  sunshine  is  the  golden  pledge  thereof.  It  beams 
through  the  gates  of  paradise  and  shows  us  glimpses 
far  inward. 

By  and  by,  in  a  little  time,  the  outward  world  puts 
on  a  drear  austerity.  On  some  October  morning 
there  is  a  heavy  hoar-frost  on  the  grass  and  along  the 
tops  of  the  fences ;  and  at  sunrise  the  leaves  fall  from 
the  trees  of  our  avenue  without  a  breath  of  wind, 
quietly  descending  by  their  own  weight.  All  summeJ 
long  they  have  murmured  like  the  noise  of  waters' 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  39 

they  have  roared  loudly  while  the  branches  were  wrest 
ling  with  the  thunder  gust;  they  have  made  music 
both  glad  aud  solemn  ;  they  have  attuned  my  thoughts 
by  their  quiet  sound  as  I  paced  to  and  fro  beneath  the 
arch  of  intermingling  boughs.  Now  they  can  only 
rustle  under  my  feet.  Henceforth  the  gray  parsonage 
begins  to  assume  a  larger  importance,  and  draws  to  its 
fireside,  —  for  the  abomination  of  the  air-tight  stove  is 
reserved  till  wintry  weather,  —  draws  closer  and  closer 
to  its  fireside  the  vagrant  impulses  that  had  gone  wan 
dering  about  through  the  summer. 

When  summer  was  dead  and  buried  the  Old  Manse 
became  as  lonely  as  a  hermitage.  Not  that  ever  — 
in  my  time  at  least  —  it  had  been  thronged  with  com 
pany;  but,  at  no  rare  intervals,  we  welcomed  some 
friend  out  of  the  dusty  glare  and  tumult  of  the  world, 
and  rejoiced  to  share  with  him  the  transparent  ob 
scurity  that  was  floating  over  us.  In  one  respect  our 
precincts  were  like  the  Enchanted  Ground  through 
which  the  pilgrim  travelled  on  his  way  to  the  Celestial 
City !  The  guests,  each  and  all,  felt  a  slumberous  in 
fluence  upon  them ;  they  fell  asleep  in  chairs,  or  took 
a  more  deliberate  siesta  on  the  sofa,  or  were  seen 
stretched  among  the  shadows  of  the  orchard,  looking 
up  dreamily  through  the  boughs.  They  could  not 
have  paid  a  more  acceptable  compliment  to  my  abode, 
nor  to  my  own  qualities  as  a  host.  I  held  it  as  a  proof 
that  they  left  their  cares  behind  them  as  they  passed 
between  the  stone  gate-posts  at  the  entrance  of  our 
avenue,  and  that  the  so  powerful  opiate  was  the  abun 
dance  of  peace  and  quiet  within  and  all  around  us. 
Others  could  give  them  pleasure  and  amusement  or 
instruction  —  these  could  be  picked  up  anywhere  ;  but 
\t  was  for  me  to  give  them  rest  —  rest  in  a  life  of 


40  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

trouble.  What  better  could  be  done  for  those  weary 
and  world-worn  spirits  ?  —  for  him  whose  career  of  per 
petual  action  was  impeded  and  harassed  by  the  rarest 
of  his  powers  and  the  richest  of  his  acquirements  ?  — 
for  another  who  had  thrown  his  ardent  heart  from 
earliest  youth  into  the  strife  of  politics,  and  now,  per 
chance,  began  to  suspect  that  one  lifetime  is  too  brief 
for  the  accomplishment  of  any  lofty  aim  ?  —  for  her 
on  whose  feminine  nature  had  been  imposed  the  heavy 
gift  of  intellectual  power,  such  as  a  strong  man  might 
aave  staggered  under,  and  with  it  the  necessity  to  act 
upon  the  world?  —  in  a  word,  not  to  multiply  in 
stances,  what  better  could  be  done  for  anybody  who 
came  within  our  magic  circle  than  to  throw  the  spell 
of  a  tranquil  spirit  over  him?  And  when  it  had 
wrought  its  full  effect,  then  we  dismissed  him,  with 
but  misty  reminiscences,  as  if  he  had  been  dreaming 
of  us. 

Were  I  to  adopt  a  pet  idea,  as  so  many  people  do, 
and  fondle  it  in  my  embraces  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
others,  it  would  be,  that  the  great  want  which  man 
kind  labors  under  at  this  present  period  is  sleep.  The 
world  should  recline  its  vast  head  on  the  first  conven 
ient  pillow  and  take  an  age-long  nap.  It  has  gone  dis 
tracted  through  a  morbid  activity,  and,  while  preter- 
naturally  wide  awake,  is  nevertheless  tormented  by 
visions  that  seem  real  to  it  now,  but  would  assume 
their  true  aspect  and  character  were  all  things  once 
set  right  by  an  interval  of  sound  repose.  This  is  the 
only  method  of  getting  rid  of  old  delusions  and  avoid 
ing  new  ones ;  of  regenerating  our  race,  so  that  it 
might  in  due  time  awake  as  an  infant  out  of.  dewy 
slumber ;  of  restoring  to  us  the  simple  perception  of 
«rhat  is  right,  and  the  single-hearted  desire  to  achieve 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  41 

it,  both  of  which  have  long  been  lost  in  consequence 
of  this  weary  activity  of  brain  and  torpor  or  passion 
of  the  heart  that  now  afflict  the  universe.  Stimu 
lants,  the  only  mode  of  treatment  hitherto  attempted, 
cannot  quell  the  disease ;  they  do  but  heighten  the  de 
lirium. 

Let  not  the  above  paragraph  ever  be  quoted  against 
the  author;  for,  though  tinctured  with  its  modicum 
of  truth,  it  is  the  result  and  expression  of  what  he 
knew,  while  he  was  writing,  to  be  but  a  distorted  sur 
vey  of  the  state  and  prospects  of  mankind.  There 
were  circumstances  around  me  which  made  it  difficult 
to  view  the  world  precisely  as  it  exists ;  for,  severe 
and  sober  as  was  the  Old  Manse,  it  was  necessary  to 
go  but  a  little  way  beyond  its  threshold  before  meet 
ing  with  stranger  moral  shapes  of  men  than  might 
have  been  encountered  elsewhere  in  a  circuit  of  a 
thousand  miles. 

These  hobgoblins  of  flesh  and  blood  were  attracted 
thither  by  the  widespreading  influence  of  a  great  orig 
inal  thinker,  who  had  his  earthly  abode  at  the  opposite 
extremity  of  our  village.  His  mind  acted  upon  other 
minds  of  a  certain  constitution  with  wonderful  mag 
netism,  and  drew  many  men  upon  long  pilgrimages  to 
speak  with  him  face  to  face.  Young  visionaries  —  to 
whom  just  so  much  of  insight  had  been  imparted  as  to 
make  life  all  a  labyrinth  around  them  —  came  to  seek 
the  clew  that  should  guide  them  out  of  their  self-in 
volved  bewilderment.  Grayheaded  theorists  —  whose 
systems,  at  first  air,  had  finally  imprisoned  them  in  an 
iron  frame-work  —  travelled  painfully  to  his  door,  not 
to  ask  deliverance,  but  to  invite  the  free  spirit  into 
their  own  thraldom.  People  that  had  lighted  on  a  new 
thought,  or  a  thought  that  they  fancied  new,  came  to 


42  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Emerson,  as  the  finder  of  a  glittering  gem  hastens  to 
a  lapidary,  to  ascertain  its  quality  and  value.  Uncer 
tain,  troubled,  earnest  wanderers  through  the  midnight 
of  the  moral  world  beheld  his  intellectual  fire  as  a  bea 
con  burning  on  a  hill-top,  and,  climbing  the  difficult 
ascent,  looked  forth  into  the  surrounding  obscurity 
more  hopefully  than  hitherto.  The  light  revealed 
objects  unseen  before,  —  mountains,  gleaming  lakes, 
glimpses  of  a  creation  among  the  chaos ;  but,  also,  as 
was  unavoidable,  it  attracted  bats  and  owls  and  the 
whole  host  <pf  night  birds,  which  flapped  their  dusky 
wings  against  the  gazer's  eyes,  and  sometimes  were 
mistaken  for  fowls  of  angelic  feather.  Such  delusions 
always  hover  nigh  whenever  a  beacon  fire  of  truth  is 
kindled. 

For  myself,  there  had  been  epochs  of  my  life  when 
I,  too,  might  have  asked  of  this  prophet  the  master 
word  that  should  solve  me  the  riddle  of  the  universe  ; 
but  now,  being  happy,  I  felt  as  if  there  were  no  ques 
tion  to  be  put,  and  therefore  admired  Emerson  as  a 
poet  of  deep  beauty  and  austere  tenderness,  but  sought 
nothing  from  him  as  a  philosopher.  It  was  good,  nev 
ertheless,  to  meet  him  in  the  woodpaths,  or  sometimes 
in  our  avenue,  with  that  pure  intellectual  gleam  dif 
fused  about  his  presence  like  the  garment  of  a  shining" 
one ;  and  he  so  quiet,  so  simple,  so  without  pretension, 
encountering  each  man  alive  as  if  expecting  to  receive- 
more  than  he  could  impart.  And,  in  truth,  the  heart 
of  many  an  ordinary  man  had,  perchance,  inscriptions 
which  he  could  not  read.  But  it  was  impossible  to 
dwell  in  his  vicinity  without  inhaling  more  or  less  the 
mountain  atmosphere  of  his  lofty  thought,  which,  in 
the  brains  of  some  people,  wrought  a  singular  giddi 
ness,  —  new  truth  being  as  heady  as  new  wine.  Never. 


THE   OLD  MANSE.  43 

was  a  poor  little  country  village  infested  with  such  a 
variety  of  queer,  strangely-dressed,  oddly-behaved  mor 
tals,  most  of  whom  took  upon  themselves  to  be  impor 
tant  agents  of  the  world's  destiny,  yet  were  simply 
bores  of  a  very  intense  water.  Such,  I  imagine,  is  the 
invariable  character  of  persons  who  crowd  so  closely 
about  an  original  thinker  as  to  draw  in  his  unuttered 
breath  and  thus  become  imbued  with  a  false  original 
ity.  This  triteness  of  novelty  is  enough  to  make  any 
man  of  common  sense  blaspheme  at  all  ideas  of  less 
than  a  century's  standing,  and  pray  that  the  world 
may  be  petrified  and  rendered  immovable  in  precisely 
the  worst  moral  and  physical  state  that  it  ever  yet  ar 
rived  at,  rather  than  be  benefited  by  such  schemes  of 
such  philosophers. 

And  now  I  begin  to  feel — and  perhaps  should  have 
sooner  felt  —  that  we  have  talked  enough  of  the  Old 
Manse.  Mine  honored  reader,  it  may  be,  will  vilify 
the  poor  author  as  an  egotist  for  babbling  through  so 
many  pages  about  a  mossgrown  country  parsonage, 
and  his  life  within  its  walls  and  on  the  river  and  in 
the  woods,  and  the  influences  that  wrought  upon  him 
from  all  these  sources.  My  conscience,  however,  does 
not  reproach  me  with  betraying  anything  too  sacredly 
individual  to  be  revealed  by  a  human  spirit  to  its 
brother  or  sister  spirit.  How  narrow  —  how  shallow 
and  scanty  too — is  the  stream  of  thought  that  has 
been  flowing  from  my  pen,  compared  with  the  broad 
tide  of  dim  emotions,  ideas,  and  associations  which 
swell  around  me  from  that  portion  of  my  existence ! 
How  little  have  I  told !  and  of  that  little,  how  almost 
nothing  is  even  tinctured  with  any  quality  that  makes 
it  exclusively  my  own  !  Has  the  reader  gone  wander- _, 
ing,  hand  in  hand  with  me,  through  the  inner  passages 


/*' 

44  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

of  my  being  ?  and  have  we  groped  together  into  all  its 
chambers  and  examined  their  treasures  or  their  rub- 
bish  ?  Not  so.  We  have  been  standing  on  the  green 
sward,  but  just  within  the  cavern's  mouth,  where  the 
common  sunshine  is  free  to  penetrate,  and  where  every 
footstep  is  therefore  free  to  come.  I  have  appealed  to 
no  sentiment  or  sensibilities  save  such  as  are  diffused 
among  us  all.  So  far  as  I  am  a  man  of  really  individ 
ual  attributes  I  veil  my  face ;  nor  am  I,  nor  have  I 
ever  been,  one  of  those  supremely  hospitable  people 
who  serve  up  their  own  hearts,  delicately  fried,  with 
brain  sauce,  as  a  tidbit  for  their  beloved  public. 

Glancing  back  over  what  I  have  written,  it  seems 
but  the  scattered  reminiscences  of  a  single  summer. 
In  fairyland  there  is  no  measurement  of  time ;  and,  in 
a  spot  so  sheltered  from  the  turmoil  of  life's  ocean, 
three  years  hastened  away  with  a  noiseless  flight,  aa 
the  breezy  sunshine  chases  the  cloud  shadows  across 
the  depths  of  a  still  valley.  Now  came  hints,  growing 
more  and  more  distinct,  that  the  owner  of  the  old 
house  was  pining  for  his  native  air.  Carpenters  next 
appeared,  making  a  tremendous  racket  among  the  out 
buildings,  strewing  the  green  grass  with  pine  shavings 
and  chips  of  chestnut  joists,  and  vexing  the  whole  an 
tiquity  of  the  place  with  their  discordant  renovations. 
Soon,  moreover,  they  divested  our  abode  of  the  veil  of 
woodbine  which  had  crept  over  a  large  portion  of  its 
southern  face.  All  the  aged  mosses  were  cleared  un 
sparingly  away ;  and  there  were  horrible  whispers 
about  brushing  up  the  external  walls  with  a  coat  of 
paint  —  a  purpose  as  little  to  my  taste  as  might  be 
that  of  rouging  the  venerable  cheeks  of  one's  grand' 
mother.  But  the  hand  that  renovates  is  always  more 
sacrilegious  than  that  which  destroys.  In  fine,  we 


THE  OLD  MANSE.  43 

gathered  up  our  household  goods,  drank  a  farewell 
cup  of  tea  in  our  pleasant  little  breakfast  room,  —  del 
icately  fragrant  tea,  an  unpurchasable  luxury,  one  of 
the  many  angel  gifts  that  had  fallen  like  dew  upon  us, 
—and  passed  forth  between  the  tall  stone  gateposts  as 
uncertain  as  the  wandering  Arabs  where  our  tent 
might  next  be  pitched.  Providence  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  —  an  oddity  of  dispensation  which,  I  trust, 
there  is  no  irreverence  in  smiling  at — has  led  me,  as 
the  newspapers  announce  while  I  am  writing,  from  the 
Old  Manse  into  a  custom  house.  As  a  story  teller,  I 
have  often  contrived  strange  vicissitudes  for  my  imag 
inary  personages,  but  none  like  this. 

The  treasure  of  intellectual  good  which  I  hoped  to 
und  in  our  secluded  dwelling  had  never  come  to  light. 
No  profound  treatise  of  ethics,  no  philosophic  history, 
no  novel  even,  that  could  stand  unsupported  on  its 
*}dges.  All  that  I  had  to  show,  as  a  man  of  letters, 
were  these  few  tales  and  essays,  which  had  blossomed 
out  like  flowers  in  the  calm  summer  of  my  heart  and 
mind.  Save  editing  (an  easy  task)  the  journal  of  my 
friend  of  many  years,  the  African  Cruiser,  I  had  done 
nothing  else.  With  these  idle  weeds  and  withering 
blossoms  I  have  intermixed  some  that  were  produced 
long  ago,  —  old,  faded  things,  reminding  me  of  flowers 
pressed  between  the  leaves  of  a  book,  —  and  now  offer 
the  bouquet,  such  as  it  is,  to  any  whom  it  may  please. 
These  fitful  sketches,  with  so  little  of  external  life 
about  them,  yet  claiming  no  profundity  of  purpose,  — 
so  reserved,  even  while  they  sometimes  seem  so  frank, 
—  often  but  half  in  earnest,  and  never,  even  when 
most  so,  expressing  satisfactorily  the  thoughts  which 
they  profess  to  image,  —  such  trifles,  I  truly  feel,  af 
ford  no  solid  basis  for  a  literary  reputation.  Never 


46  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

theless,  the  public  —  if  my  limited  number  of  readers, 
whom  I  venture  to  regard  rather  as  a  circle  of  friends, 
may  be  termed  a  public  —  will  receive  them  the  more 
kindly,  as  the  last  offering,  the  last  collection,  of  this 
nature  which  it  is  my  purpose  ever  to  put  forth.  Un 
less  I  could  do  better,  I  have  done  enough  in  this  kind. 
For  myself  the  book  will  always  retain  one  charm  — 
as  reminding  me  of  the  river,  with  its  delightful  soli 
tudes,  and  of  the  avenue,  the  garden,  and  the  orchard, 
and  especially  the  dear  old  Manse,  with  the  little  study 
on  its  western  side,  and  the  sunshine  glimmering 
through  the  willow  branches  while  I  wrote. 

Let  the  reader,  if  he  will  do  me  so  much  honor,  im 
agine  himself  my  guest,  and  that,  having  seen  what 
ever  may  be  worthy  of  notice  within  and  about  the 
Old  Manse,  he  has  finally  been  ushered  into  my  study. 
There,  after  seating  him  in  an  antique  elbow  chair,  an 
heirloom  of  the  house,  I  take  forth  a  roll  of  manu 
script  and  entreat  his  attention  to  the  following  tales 
—  an  act  of  personal  inhospitality,  however,  which  I 
never  was  guilty  of,  nor  ever  will  be,  even  to  my  worst 
enemy. 


THE    BIRTHMARK. 

IN  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century  there  lived  a 
man  of  science,  an  eminent  proficient  in  every  branch 
of  natural  philosophy,  who  not  long  before  our  story 
opens  had  made  experience  of  a  spiritual  affinity  more 
attractive  than  any  chemical  one.  He  had  left  his 
laboratory  to  the  care  of  an  assistant,  cleared  his  fine 
countenance  from  the  furnace  smoke,  washed  the  stain 
of  acids  from  his  fingers,  and  persuaded  a  beautiful 
woman  to  become  his  wife.  In  those  days  when  the 
comparatively  recent  discovery  of  electricity  and  other 
kindred  mysteries  of  Nature  seemed  to  open  paths 
into  the  region  of  miracle,  it  was  not  unusual  for  the 
love  of  science  to  rival  the  love  of  woman  in  its  depth 
and  absorbing  energy.  The  higher  intellect,  the  im 
agination,  the  spirit,  and  even  the  heart  might  all  find 
their  congenial  aliment  in  pursuits  which,  as  some  of 
their  ardent  votaries  believed,  would  ascend  from  one 
step  of  powerful  intelligence  to  another,  until  the  phi 
losopher  should  lay  his  hand  on  the  secret  of  creative 
force  and  perhaps  make  new  worlds  for  himself.  We 
know  not  whether  Aylmer  possessed  this  degree  of 
faith  in  man's  ultimate  control  over  Nature.  He  had 
devoted  himself,  however,  too  unreservedly  to  scientific 
studies  ever  to  be  weaned  from  them  by  any  second 
passion.  His  love  for  his  young  wife  might  prove  the 
stronger  of  the  two ;  but  it  could  only  be  by  intertwin 
ing  itself  with  his  love  of  science,  and  uniting  the 
strength  of  the  latter  to  his  own. 


48  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

Such  a  union  accordingly  took  place,  and  was  at 
tended  with  truly  remarkable  consequences  and  a 
deeply  impressive  moral.  One  day,  very  soon  after 
their  marriage,  Aylmer  sat  gazing  at  his  wife  with  a 
trouble  in  his  countenance  that  grew  stronger  until  he 
spoke. 

"Georgiana,"  said  he,  "has  it  never  occurred  to 
you  that  the  mark  upon  your  cheek  might  be  re 
moved  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  she,  smiling ;  but  perceiving 
the  seriousness  of  his  manner,  she  blushed  deeply. 
"  To  tell  you  the  truth  it  has  been  so  often  called  a 
charm  that  I  was  simple  enough  to  imagine  it  might 
be  so." 

"  Ah,  upon  another  face  perhaps  it  might,"  replied 
her  husband ;  "  but  never  on  yours.  No,  dearest 
Georgiana,  you  came  so  nearly  perfect  from  the  hand 
of  Nature  that  this  slightest  possible  defect,  which  we 
hesitate  whether  to  term  a  defect  or  a  beauty,  shocks 
me,  as  being  the  visible  mark  of  earthly  imperfec 
tion." 

"  Shocks  you,  my  husband ! "  cried  Georgiana, 
deeply  hurt;  at  first  reddening  with  momentary  an 
ger,  but  then  bursting  into  tears.  "  Then  why  did 
you  take  me  from  my  mother's  side  ?  You  cannot 
love  what  shocks  you  !  " 

To  explain  this  conversation  it  must  be  mentioned 
that  in  the  centre  of  Georgiana' s  left  cheek  there  was 
a  singular  mark,  deeply  interwoven,  as  it  were,  with 
the  texture  and  substance  of  her  face.  In  the  usual 
state  of  her  complexion  —  a  healthy  though  delicate 
bloom  —  the  mark  wore  a  tint  of  deeper  crimson, 
which  imperfectly  defined  its  shape  amid  the  sur 
rounding  rosiness.  When  she  blushed  it  gradually 


THE   BIRTHMARK.  49 

became  more  indistinct,  and  finally  vanished  amid  the 
triumphant  rush  of  blood  that  bathed  the  whole  cheek 
with  its  brilliant  glow.  But  if  any  shifting  motion 
caused  her  to  turn  pale  there  was  the  mark  again,  a 
crimson  stain  upon  the  snow,  in  what  Aylmer  some 
times  deemed  an  almost  fearful  distinctness.  Its  shape 
bore  not  a  little  similarity  to  the  human  hand,  though 
of  the  smallest  pygmy  size.  Georgiana's  lovers  were 
wont  to  say  that  some  fairy  at  her  birth  hour  had  laid 
her  tiny  hand  upon  the  infant's  cheek,  and  left  this 
impress  there  in  token  of  the  magic  endowments  that 
were  to  give  her  such  sway  over  all  hearts.  Many  a 
desperate  swain  would  have  risked  life  for  the  privi 
lege  of  pressing  his  lips  to  the  mysterious  hand.  It 
must  not  be  concealed,  however,  that  the  impression 
wrought  by  this  fairy  sign  manual  varied  exceedingly, 
according  to  the  difference  of  temperament  in  the  be 
holders.  Some  fastidious  persons  —  but  they  were 
exclusively  of  her  own  sex  —  affirmed  that  the  bloody 
hand,  as  they  chose  to  call  it,  quite  destroyed  the  effect 
of  Georgiana's  beauty,  and  rendered  her  countenance 
even  hideous.  But  it  would  be  as  reasonable  to  say 
that  one  of  those  small  blue  stains  which  sometimes 
occur  in  the  purest  statuary  marble  would  convert  the 
Eve  of  Powers  to  a  monster.  Masculine  observers, 
if  the  birthmark  did  not  heighten  their  admiration, 
contented  themselves  with  wishing  it  away,  that  the 
world  might  possess  one  living  specimen  of  ideal  love 
liness  without  the  semblance  of  a  flaw.  After  his  mar 
riage,  —  for  he  thought  little  or  nothing  of  the  matter 
before,  —  Aylmer  discovered  that  this  was  the  case 
with  himself. 

Had  she  been  less  beautiful,  —  if  Envy's  self  could 
have  found  aught  else  to  sneer  at,  —  he  might  have 


50  MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

felt  his  affection  heightened  by  the  prettiness  of  this 
mimic  hand,  now  vaguely  portrayed,  now  lost,  now 
stealing  forth  again  and  glimmering  to  and  fro  with 
every  pulse  of  emotion  that  throbbed  within  her  heart ; 
but  seeing  her  otherwise  so  perfect,  he  found  this  one 
defect  grow  more  and  more  intolerable  with  every  mo- 

y  ment  of  their  united  lives.  It  was  the  fatal  flaw  of 
humanity  which  Nature,  in  one  shape  or  another, 
stamps  ineffaceably  on  all  her  productions,  either  to 
imply  that  they  are  temporary  and  finite,  or  that  their 
perfection  must  be  wrought  by  toil  and  pain.  The 
crimson  hand  expressed  the  ineludible  gripe  in  which 
mortality  clutches  the  highest  and  purest  of  earthly 
mould,  degrading  them  into  kindred  with  the  lowest, 
and  even  with  the  very  brutes,  like  whom  their  visible 
frames  return  to  dust.  In  this  manner,  selecting  it  as 

.  the  symbol  of  his  wife's  liability  to  sin,  sorrow,  decay, 
and  death,  Aylmer's  sombre  imagination  was  not  long 
in  rendering  the  birthmark  a  frightful  object,  causing 
him  more  trouble  and  horror  than  ever  Georgiana's 
beauty,  whether  of  soul  or  sense,  had  given  him  de 
light. 

At  all  the  seasons  which  should  have  been  their  hap 
piest,  he  invariably  and  without  intending  it,  nay,  in 
spite  of  a  purpose  to  the  contrary,  reverted  to  this  one 
disastrous  topic.  Trifling  as  it  at  first  appeared,  it  so 
connected  itself  with  innumerable  trains  of  thought 
and  modes  of  feeling  that  it  became  the  central  point 
of  all.  With  the  morning  twilight  Aylmer  opened 
his  eyes  upon  his  wife's  face  and  recognized  the  sym 
bol  of  imperfection ;  and  when  they  sat  together  at 
the  evening  hearth  his  eyes  wandered  stealthily  to 
her  cheek,  and  beheld,  flickering  with  the  blaze  of 
the  wood  fire,  the  spectral  hand  that  wrote  mortality 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  51 

where  he  would  fain  have  worshipped.  Georgiana 
Boon  learned  to  shudder  at  his  gaze.  It  needed  but  a 
glance  with  the  peculiar  expression  that  his  face  often 
wore  to  change  the  roses  of  her  cheek  into  a  death 
like  paleness,  amid  which  the  crimson  hand  was 
brought  strongly  out,  like  a  bass-relief  of  ruby  on 
the  whitest  marble. 

Late  one  night  when  the  lights  were  growing  dim, 
so  as  hardly  to  betray  the  stain  on  the  poor  wife's 
cheek,  she  herself,  for  the  first  time,  voluntarily  took 
up  the  subject. 

"  Do  you  remember,  my  dear  Ay  liner,"  said  she, 
with  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  smile,  "  have  you  any  rec 
ollection  of  a  dream  last  night  about  this  odious 
hand?" 

"  None  !  none  whatever !  "  replied  Aylmer,  starting ; 
but  then  he  added,  in  a  dry,  cold  tone,  affected  for  the 
sake  of  concealing  the  real  depth  of  his  emotion,  "  I 
might  well  dream  of  it ;  for  before  I  fell  asleep  it  had 
taken  a  pretty  firm  hold  of  my  fancy." 

"  And  you  did  dream  of  it?  "  continued  Georgiana, 
hastily ;  for  she  dreaded  lest  a  gush  of  tears  should 
interrupt  what  she  had  to  say.  "  A  terrible  dream  ! 
I  wonder  that  you  can  forget  it.  Is  it  possible  to  for 
get  this  one  expression  ?  — '  It  is  in  her  heart  now  ; 
we  must  have  it  out ! '  Eeflect,  my  husband ;  for  by 
all  means  I  would  have  you  recall  that  dream." 

The  mind  is  in  a  sad  state  when  Sleep,  the  all- 
involving,  cannot  confine  her  spectres  within  the  dim 
region  of  her  sway,  but  suffers  them  to  break  forth, 
affrighting  this  actual  life  with  secrets  that  perchance 
belong  to  a  deeper  one.  Aylmer  now  remembered 
his  dream.  He  had  fancied  himself  with  his  servant 
Aminadab,  attempting  an  operation  for  the  removal  of 


52  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

the  birthmark;  but  the  deeper  went  the  knife,  the 
deeper  sank  the  hand,  until  at  length  its  tiny  grasp 
appeared  to  have  caught  hold  of  Georgiana' s  heart ; 
whence,  however,  her  husband  was  inexorably  resolved 
to  cut  or  wrench  it  away. 

When  the  dream  had  shaped  itself  perfectly  in  his 
memory,  Aylmer  sat  in  his  wife's  presence  with  a 
guilty  feeling.  Truth  often  finds  its  way  to  the  mind 
close  muffled  in  robes  of  sleep,  and  then  speaks  with 
uncompromising  directness  of  matters  in  regard  to 
which  we  practise  an  unconscious  self-deception  dur 
ing  our  waking  moments.  Until  now  he  had  not  been 
aware  of  the  tyrannizing  influence  acquired  by  one  idea 
over  his  mind,  and  of  the  lengths  which  he  might  find 
in  his  heart  to  go  for  the  sake  of  giving  himself  peace* 

"  Aylmer,"  resumed  Georgiana,  solemnly,  "  I  know 
not  what  may  be  the  cost  to  both  of  us  to  rid  me  of 
this  fatal  birthmark.  Perhaps  its  removal  may  cause 
cureless  deformity  ;  or  it  may  be  the  stain  goes  as  deep 
as  life  itself.  Again :  do  we  know  that  there  is  a  pos 
sibility,  on  any  terms,  of  unclasping  the  firm  gripe  of 
this  little  hand  which  was  laid  upon  me  before  I  came 
into  the  world?" 

"Dearest  Georgiana,  I  have  spent  much  thought 
upon  the  subject,"  hastily  interrupted  Aylmer.  "  I  am 
convinced  of  the  perfect  practicability  of  its  removal." 

"  If  there  be  the  remotest  possibility  of  it,"  con 
tinued  Georgiana,  "  let  the  attempt  be  made  at  what 
ever  risk.  Danger  is  nothing  to  me  ;  for  life,  while 
this  hateful  mark  makes  me  the  object  of  your  horror 
and  disgust,  —  life  is  a  burden  which  I  would  fling 
down  with  joy.  Either  remove  this  dreadful  hand,  or 
take  my  wretched  life  !  You  have  deep  science.  All 
the  world  bears  witness  of  it.  You  have  achieved 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  53 

great  wonders.  Cannot  you  remove  this  little,  little 
mark,  which  I  cover  with  the  tips  of  two  small  fingers? 
Is  this  beyond  your  power,  for  the  sake  of  your  own 
peace,  and  to  save  your  poor  wife  from  madness  ?  " 

"Noblest,  dearest,  tenderest  wife,"  cried  Aylmer, 
rapturously,  "doubt  not  my  power.  I  have  already 
given  this  matter  the  deepest  thought  —  thought  which 
might  almost  have  enlightened  me  to  create  a  being 
less  perfect  than  yourself.  Georgiana,  you  have  led 
me  deeper  than  ever  into  the  heart  of  science.  I  feel 
myself  fully  competent  to  render  this  dear  cheek  as 
faultless  as  its  fellow ;  and  then,  most  beloved,  what  < 
will  be  my  triumph  when  I  shall  have  corrected  what  j 
Nature  left  imperfect  in  her  fairest  work !  Even  Pyg- 
malion,  when  his  sculptured  woman  assumed  life,  felt 
noj  greater  ecstasy  than  mine  will  be." 

"  It  is  resolved,  then,"  said  Georgiana,  faintly  smil 
ing.  "  And,  Aylmer,  spare  me  not,  though  you  should 
find  the  birthmark  take  refuge  in  my  heart  at  last." 

Her  husband  tenderly  kissed  her  cheek  —  her  right 
cheek  —  not  that  which  bore  the  impress  of  the  crim 
son  hand. 

The  next  day  Aylmer  apprised  his  wife  of  a  plan 
that  he  had  formed  whereby  he  might  have  oppor 
tunity  for  the  intense  thought  and  constant  watchful 
ness  which  the  proposed  operation  would  require; 
while  Georgiana,  likewise,  would  enjoy  the  perfect 
repose  essential  to  its  success.  They  were  to  seclude 
themselves  in  the  extensive  apartments  occupied  by 
Aylmer  as  a  laboratory,  and  where,  during  his  toil 
some  youth,  he  had  made  discoveries  in  the  elemental 
powers  of  Nature  that  had  roused  the  admiration  of 
all  the  learned  societies  in  Europe.  Seated  calmly  in 
this  laboratory,  the  pale  philosopher  had  investigated 


54  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

the  secrets  of  the  highest  cloud  region  and  of  the  pro- 
foundest  mines  ;  he  had  satisfied  himself  of  the  causes 
that  kindled  and  kept  alive  the  fires  of  the  volcano ; 
and  had  explained  the  mystery  of  fountains,  and  how 
it  is  that  they  gush  forth,  some  so  bright  and  pure, 
and  others  with  such  rich  medicinal  virtues,  from  the 
dark  bosom  of  the  earth.  Here,  too,  at  an  earlier  pe 
riod,  he  had  studied  the  wonders  of  the  human  frame, 
and  attempted  to  fathom  the  very  process  by  which 
Nature  assimilates  all  her  precious  influences  from 
earth  and  air,  and  from  the  spiritual  world,  to  create 
and  foster  man,  her  masterpiece.  The  latter  pursuit, 
however,  Aylmer  had  long  laid  aside  in  unwilling 
recognition  of  the  truth  —  against  which  all  seekers 
sooner  or  later  stumble  —  that  our  great  creative 
Mother,  while  she  amuses  us  with  apparently  work 
ing  in  the  broadest  sunshine,  is  yet  severely  careful* to 
keep  her  own  secrets,  and,  in  spite  of  her  pretended 
openness,  shows  us  nothing  but  results.  She  permits 
us,  indeed,  to  mar,  but  seldom  to  mend,  and,  like  a 
jealous  patentee,  on  no  account  to  make.  Now,  how 
ever,  Aylmer  resumed  these  half-forgotten  investiga 
tions  ;  not,  of  course,  with  such  hopes  or  wishes  as 
first  suggested  them ;  but  because  they  involved  much 
physiological  truth  and  lay  in  the  path  of  his  proposed 
scheme  for  the  treatment  of  Georgiana. 

As  he  led  her  over  the  threshold  of  the  laboratory, 
Georgiana  was  cold  and  tremulous.  Aylmer  looked 
cheerfully  into  her  face,  with  intent  to  reassure  her, 
but  was  so  startled  with  the  intense  glow  of  the  birth 
mark  upon  the  whiteness  of  her  cheek  that  he  could 
not  restrain  a  strong  convidsive  shudder.  His  wife 
fainted. 

"Aminadab!  Aminadab!"  shouted  Aylmer,  stamp 
ing  violently  on  the  floor. 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  55 

Forthwith  there  issued  from  an  inner  apartment  a 
man  of  low  stature,  but  bulky  frame,  with  shaggy 
hair  hanging  about  his  visage,  which  was  grimed  with 
the  vapors  of  the  furnace.  This  personage  had  been 
Aylmer's  underworker  during  his  whole  scientific  ca 
reer,  and  was  admirably  fitted  for  that  office  by  his 
great  mechanical  readiness,  and  the  skill  with  which, 
while  incapable  of  comprehending  a  single  principle, 
he  executed  all  the  details  of  his  master's  experiments. 
With  his  vast  strength,  his  shaggy  hair,  his  smoky 
aspect,  and  the  indescribable  earthiness  that  incrusted 
him,  he  seemed  to  represent  man's  physical  nature ;  \ 
while  Aylmer's  slender  figure,  and  pale,  intellectual 
face,  were  no  less  apt  a  type  of  the  spiritual  element. 

"  Throw  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  Aminadab," 
said  Aylmer,  "  and  burn  a  pastil." 

"  Yes,  master,"  answered  Aminadab,  looking  in- 
tently  at  the  lifeless  form  of  Georgiana ;  and  then  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "  If  she  were  my  wife,  I  'd  never 
part  with  that  birthmark." 

When  Georgiana  recovered  consciousness  she  found 
herself  breathing  an  atmosphere  of  penetrating  fra 
grance,  the  gentle  potency  of  which  had  recalled  her 
from  her  deathlike  faintness.  The  scene  around  her 
looked  like  enchantment.  Aylmer  had  converted  those 
smoky,  dingy,  sombre  rooms,  where  he  had  spent  his 
brightest  years  in  recondite  pursuits,  into  a  series  of 
beautiful  apartments  not  unfit  to  be  the  secluded  abode 
of  a  lovely  woman.  The  walls  were  hung  with  gor 
geous  curtains,  which  imparted  the  combination  of 
grandeur  and  grace  that  no  other  species  of  adorn 
ment  can  achieve  ;  and  as  they  fell  from  the  ceiling  to 
the  floor,  their  rich  and  ponderous  folds,  concealing  all 
angles  and  straight  lines,  appeared  to  shut  in  the  scene 


66  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

from  infinite  space.  For  aught  Georgiana  knew,  it 
might  be  a  pavilion  among  the  clouds.  And  Aylmer, 
excluding  the  sunshine,  which  would  have  interfered 
with  his  chemical  processes,  had  supplied  its  place 
with  perfumed  lamps,  emitting  flames  of  various  hue, 
but  all  uniting  in  a  soft,  impurpled  radiance.  He 
now  knelt  by  his  wife's  side,  watching  her  earnestly, 
but  without  alarm  ;  for  he  was  confident  in  his  science, 
and  felt  that  he  could  draw  a  magic  circle  round  her 
within  which  no  evil  might  intrude. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  Ah,  I  remember,"  said  Georgiana, 
faintly ;  and  she  placed  her  hand  over  her  cheek  to 
hide  the  terrible  mark  from  her  husband's  eyes. 

"  Fear  not,  dearest !  "  exclaimed  he.  "  Do  not 
shrink  from  me !  Believe  me,  Georgiana,  I  even  re 
joice  in  this  single  imperfection,  since  it  will  be  such 
a  rapture  to  remove  it." 

"  Oh,  spare  me  !  "  sadly  replied  his  wife.  "  Pray  do 
not  look  at  it  again.  I  never  can  forget  that  convul 
sive  shudder." 

In  order  to  soothe  Georgiana,  and,  as  it  were,  to  re 
lease  her  mind  from  the  burden  of  actual  things,  Ayl 
mer  now  put  in  practice  some  of  the  light  and  playful 
secrets  which  science  had  taught  him  among  its  pro- 
founder  lore.  Airy  figures,  absolutely  bodiless  ideas, 
and  forms  of  unsubstantial  beauty  came  and  danced 
before  her,  imprinting  their  momentary  footsteps  on 
beams  of  light.  Though  she  had  some  indistinct  idea 
of  the  method  of  these  optical  phenomena,  still  the  illu 
sion  was  almost  perfect  enough  to  warrant  the  belief 
that  her  husband  possessed  sway  over  the  spiritual 
world.  Then  again,  when  she  felt  a  wish  to  look  forth 
from  her  seclusion,  immediately,  as  if  her  thoughts 
were  answered,  the  procession  of  external  existence 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  57 

flitted  across  a  screen.  The  scenery  and  the  figures 
of  actual  life  were  perfectly  represented,  but  with  that 
bewitching,  yet  indescribable  difference  which  always 
makes  a  picture,  an  image,  or  a  shadow  so  much  more 
attractive  than  the  original.  When  wearied  of  this, 
Aylmer  bade  her  cast  her  eyes  upon  a  vessel  contain 
ing  a  quantity  of  earth.  She  did  so,  with  little  interest 
at  first ;  but  was  soon  startled  to  perceive  the  germ  of 
a  plant  shooting  upward  from  the  soil.  Then  came 
the  slender  stalk ;  the  leaves  gradually  unfolded  them 
selves  ;  and  amid  them  was  a  perfect  and  lovely  flower. 

"  It  is  magical !  "  cried  Georgiana.  "  I  dare  not 
touch  it." 

"  Nay,  pluck  it,"  answered  Aylmer,  —  "  pluck  it,  and 
inhale  its  brief  perfume  while  you  may.  The  flower 
will  wither  in  a  few  moments  and  leave  nothing  save 
its  brown  seed  vessels ;  but  thence  may  be  perpetuated 
a  race  as  ephemeral  as  itself." 

But  Georgiana  had  no  sooner  touched  the  flower 
than  the  whole  plant  suffered  a  blight,  its  leaves  turn 
ing  coal-black  as  if  by  the  agency  of  fire. 

"  There  was  too  powerful  a  stimulus,"  said  Aylmer, 
thoughtfully. 

To  make  up  for  this  abortive  experiment,  he  pro 
posed  to  take  her  portrait  by  a  scientific  process  of  his 
own  invention.  It  was  to  be  effected  by  rays  of  light 
striking  upon  a  polished  plate  of  metal.  Georgiana 
assented  ;  but,  on  looking  at  the  result,  was  affrighted 
to  find  the  features  of  the  portrait  blurred  and  inde 
finable  ;  while  the  minute  figure  of  a  hand  appeared 
where  the  cheek  should  have  been.  Aylmer  snatched 
the  metallic  plate  and  threw  it  into  a  jar  of  corrosive 
ftcid. 

Soon,  however,  he  forgot  these  mortifying  failures 


58  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

In  the  intervals  of  study  and  chemical  experiment  he 
came  to  her  flushed  and  exhausted,  but  seemed  invigor 
ated  by  her  presence,  and  spoke  in  glowing  language 
of  the  resources  of  his  art.  He  gave  a  history  of  the 
long  dynasty  of  the  alchemists,  who  spent  so  many 
ages  in  quest  of  the  universal  solvent  by  which  the 
golden  principle  might  be  elicited  from  all  things  vile 
and  base.  Aylmer  appeared  to  believe  that,  by  the 
plainest  scientific  logic,  it  was  altogether  within  the 
limits  of  possibility  to  discover  this  long-sought  me 
dium  ;  "  but,"  he  added,  "  a  philosopher  who  should 
go  deep  enough  to  acquire  the  power  would  attain  too 
lofty  a  wisdom  to  stoop  to  the  exercise  of  it."  Not 
less  singular  were  his  opinions  in  regard  to  the  elixir 
vitse.  He  more  than  intimated  that  it  was  at  his  op 
tion  to  concoct  a  liquid  that  should  prolong  life  for 
years,  perhaps  interminably ;  but  that  it  would  pro 
duce  a  discord  in  Nature  which  all  the  world,  and 
chiefly  the  quaffer  of  the  immortal  nostrum,  would 
find  cause  to  curse. 

"  Aylmer,  are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  asked  Georgiana, 
looking  at  him  with  amazement  and  fear.  "It  is  ter 
rible  to  possess  such  power,  or  even  to  dream  of  pos 
sessing  it." 

"  Oh,  do  not  tremble,  my  love,"  said  her  husband. 
"  I  would  not  wrong  either  you  or  myself  by  working 
such  inharmonious  effects  upon  our  lives ;  but  I  would 
have  you  consider  how  trifling,  in  comparison,  is  the 
skill  requisite  to  remove  this  little  hand." 

At  the  mention  of  the  birthmark,  Georgiana,  as 
usual,  shrank  as  if  a  redhot  iron  had  touched  her 
cheek. 

Again  Aylmer  applied  himself  to  his  labors.  She 
tould  hear  his  voice  in  the  distant  furnace  room  giv 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  59 

ing  directions  to  Aminadab,  whose  harsh,  uncouth, 
misshapen  tones  were  audible  in  response,  more  like 
the  grunt  or  growl  of  a  brute  than  human  speech.  Af 
ter  hours  of  absence,  Aylmer  reappeared  and  proposed 
that  she  should  now  examine  his  cabinet  of  chemical 
products  and  natural  treasures  of  the  earth.  Among 
the  former  he  showed  her  a  small  vial,  in  which,  he 
remarked,  was  contained  a  gentle  yet  most  powerful 
fragrance,  capable  of  impregnating  all  the  breezes  that 
blow  across  a  kingdom.  They  were  of  inestimable 
value,  the  contents  of  that  little  vial ;  and,  as  he  said 
so,  he  threw  some  of  the  perfume  into  the  air  and  filled 
the  room  with  piercing  and  invigorating  delight. 

"And  what  is  this?"  asked  Georgiana,  pointing  to 
a  small  crystal  globe  containing  a  gold-colored  liquid. 
"  It  is  so  beautiful  to  the  eye  that  I  could  imagine  it 
the  elixir  of  life." 

"  In  one  sense  it  is,"  replied  Aylmer ;  "  or,  rather, 
the  elixir  of  immortality.  It  is  the*  most  precious  poi 
son  that  ever  was  concocted  in  this  world.  By  its  aid 
I  could  apportion  the  lifetime  of  any  mortal  at  whom 
you  might  point  your  finger.  The  strength  of  the  dose 
would  determine  whether  he  were  to  linger  out  years, 
or  drop  dead  in  the  midst  of  a  breath.  No  king  on 
his  guarded  throne  could  keep  his  life  if  I,  in  my  pri 
vate  station,  should  deem  that  the  welfare  of  millions 
justified  me  in  depriving  him  of  it." 

"Why  do  you  keep  such  a  terrific  drug  ?  "  inquired 
Georgiana  in  horror. 

"  Do  not  mistrust  me,  dearest,"  said  her  husband, 
smiling  ;  "  its  virtuous  potency  is  yet  greater  than  its 
harmful  one.  But  see  !  here  is  a  powerful  cosmetic. 
With  a  few  drops  of  this  in  a  vase  of  water,  freckles 
may  be  washed  away  as  easily  as  the  hands  are  cleansed. 


60  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

A  stronger  infusion  would  take  the  blood  out  of  the 
cheek,  and  leave  the  rosiest  beauty  a  pale  ghost." 

"  Is  it  with  this  lotion  that  you  intend  to  bathe  my 
cheek?"  asked  Georgiana,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  no,"  hastily  replied  her  husband ;  "  this  is 
merely  superficial.  Your  case  demands  a  remedy  that 
shall  go  deeper." 

In  his  interviews  with  Georgiana,  Aylmer  generally 
made  minute  inquiries  as  to  her  sensations  and  whether 
the  confinement  of  the  rooms  and  the  temperature  of 
the  atmosphere  agreed  with  her.  These  questions  had 
such  a  particular  drift  that  Georgiana  began  to  conjec 
ture  that  she  was  already  subjected  to  certain  physical 
influences,  either  breathed  in  with  the  fragrant  air  or 
taken  with  her  food.  She  fancied  likewise,  but  it 
might  be  altogether  fancy,  that  there  was  a  stirring  up 
of  her  system  —  a  strange,  indefinite  sensation  creep 
ing  through  her  veins,  and  tingling,  half  painfully,  half 
pleasurably,  at  her  "heart.  Still,  whenever  she  dared  to 
look  into  the  mirror,  there  she  beheld  herself  pale  as  a 
white  rose  and  with  the  crimson  birthmark  stamped 
upon  her  cheek.  Not  even  Aylmer  now  hated  it  so 
much  as  she. 

To  dispel  the  tedium  of  the  hours  which  her  hus 
band  found  it  necessary  to  devote  to  the  processes  of 
combination  and  analysis,  Georgiana  turned  over  the 
volumes  of  his  scientific  library.  In  many  dark  old 
tomes  she  met  with  chapters  full  of  romance  and 
poetry.  They  were  the  works  of  the  philosophers  of 
the  middle  ages,  such  as  Albertus  Magnus,  Cornelius 
Agrippa,  Paracelsus,  and  the  famous  friar  who  created 
the  prophetic  Brazen  Head.  All  these  antique  natu 
ralists  stood  in  advance  of  their  centuries,  yet  were  im 
bued  with  some  of  their  credulity,  and  therefore  were 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  61 

believed,  and  perhaps  imagined  themselves  to  have 
acquired  from  the  investigation  of  Nature  a  power 
above  Nature,  and  from  physics  a  sway  over  the  spir 
itual  world.  Hardly  less  curious  and  imaginative  were 
the  early  volumes  of  the  Transactions  of  the  Royal 
Society,  in  which  the  members,  knowing  little  of  the 
limits  of  natural  possibility,  were  continually  record 
ing  wonders  or  proposing  methods  whereby  wonders 
might  be  wrought. 

But  to  Georgiana  the  most  engrossing  volume  was  a 
large  folio  from  her  husband's  own  hand,  in  which  he 
had  recorded  every  experiment  of  his  scientific  career, 
its  original  aim,  the  methods  adopted  for  its  develop 
ment,  and  its  final  success  or  failure,  with  the  circum 
stances  to  which  either  event  was  attributable.  The 
book,  in  truth,  was  both  the  history  and  emblem  of  his 
a-rdent,  ambitious,  imaginative,  yet  practical  and  labo 
rious  life.  He  handled  physical  details  as  if  there 
were  nothing  beyond  them ;  yet  spiritualized  them  all, 
and  redeemed  himself  from  materialism  by  his  strong 
and  eager  aspiration  towards  the  infinite.  In  his  grasp 
the  veriest  clod  of  earth  assumed  a  soul.  Georgiana, 
as  she  read,  reverenced  Aylmer  and  loved  him  more 
profoundly  than  ever,  but  with  a  less  entire  depend 
ence  on  his  judgment  than  heretofore.  Much  as  he 
had  accomplished,  she  could  not  but  observe  that  his 
most  splendid  successes  were  almost  invariably  fail- 
ures,  if  compared  with  the  ideal  at  which  he  aimed. 
His  brightest  diamonds  were  the  merest  pebbles,  and 
felt  to  be  so  by  himself,  in  comparison  with  the  inesti 
mable  gems  which  lay  hidden  beyond  his  reach.  The 
volume,  rich  with  achievements  that  had  won  renown 
for  its  author,  was  yet  as  melancholy  a  record  as  evei 
mortal  hand  had  penned.  It  was  the  sad  confession 


62  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

and  continual  exemplification  of  the  shortcomings  of 
the  composite  man,  the  spirit  burdened  with  clay  and 
working  in  matter,  and  of  the  despair  that  assails  the 
higher  nature  at  finding  itself  so  miserably  thwarted 
by  the  earthly  part.  Perhaps  every  man  of  genius  in 
whatever  sphere  might  recognize  the  image  of  his  own 
experience  in  Aylmer's  journal. 

So  deeply  did  these  reflections  affect  Georgiana  that 
she  laid  her  face  upon  the  open  volume  and  burst  into 
tears.  In  this  situation  she  was  found  by  her  hus 
band. 

"It  is  dangerous  to  read  in  a  sorcerer's  books," 
said  he  with  a  smile,  though  his  countenance  was  un^ 
easy  and  displeased.  "  Georgiana,  there  are  pages  in 
that  volume  which  I  can  scarcely  glance  over  and  keep 
my  senses.  Take  heed  lest  it  prove  as  detrimental  to 
you." 

"  It  has  made  me  worship  you  more  than  ever,"  said 
she. 

"  Ah,  wait  for  this  one  success,"  rejoined  he,  "  then 
worship  me  if  you  will.  I  shall  deem  myself  hardly 
unworthy  of  it.  But  come,  I  have  sought  you  for  the 
luxury  of  your  voice.  Sing  to  me,  dearest." 

So  she  poured  out  the  liquid  music  of  her  voice  to 
quench  the  thirst  of  his  spirit.  He  then  took  his  leave 
with  a  boyish  exuberance  of  gayety,  assuring  her  that 
her  seclusion  would  endure  but  a  little  longer,  and 
that  the  result  was  already  certain.  Scarcely  had  he 
departed  when  Georgiana  felt  irresistibly  impelled  to 
follow  him.  She  had  forgotten  to  inform  Aylmer  of 
a  symptom  which  for  two  or  three  hours  past  had  be 
gun  to  excite  her  attention.  It  was  a  sensation  in  the 
fatal  birthmark,  not  painful,  but  which  induced  a  rest 
lessness  throughout  her  system.  Hastening  after  hei 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  63 

husband,  she  intruded  for  the  first  time  into  the  lab 
oratory. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  her  eye  was  the  furnace, 
that  hot  and  feverish  worker,  with  the  intense  glow  of 
its  fire,  which  by  the  quantities  of  soot  clustered  above 
it  seemed  to  have  been  burning  for  ages.  There  was 
a  distilling  apparatus  in  full  operation.  Around  the 
room  were  retorts,  tubes,  cylinders,  crucibles,  and  other 
apparatus  of  chemical  research.  An  electrical  machine 
stood  ready  for  immediate  use.  The  atmosphere  felt 
oppressively  close,  and  was  tainted  with  gaseous  odors 
which  had  been  tormented  forth  by  the  processes  of 
science.  The  severe  and  homely  simplicity  of  the 
apartment,  with  its  naked  walls  and  brick  pavement, 
looked  strange,  accustomed  as  Georgiana  had  become 
to  the  fantastic  elegance  of  her  boudoir.  But  what 
chiefly,  indeed  almost  solely,  drew  her  attention,  was 
the  aspect  of  Aylmer  himself. 

He  was  pale  as  death,  anxious  and  absorbed,  and 
hung  over  the  furnace  as  if  it  depended  upon  his  ut 
most  watchfulness  whether  the  liquid  which  it  was  dis 
tilling  should  be  the  draught  of  immortal  happiness  or 
misery.  How  different  from  the  sanguine  and  joyous 
mien  that  he  had  assumed  for  Georgiana's  encourage 
ment  ! 

"  Carefully  now,  Aminadab  ;  carefully,  thou  human 
machine  ;  carefully, '  thou  man  of  clay !  "  muttered 
Aylmer,  more  to  himself  than  his  assistant.  "  Now, 
if  there  be  a  thought  too  much  or  too  little,  it  is  all 
over." 

"  Ho !  ho  !  "  mumbled  Aminadab.  "  Look,  master ! 
look!" 

Aylmer  raised  his  eyes  hastily,  and  at  first  red 
dened,  then  grew  paler  than  ever,  on  beholding  Geor 


64  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

giana.  He  rushed  towards  her  and  seized  her  arm 
with  a  gripe  that  left  the  print  of  his  fingers  upon  it. 

"  Why  do  you  come  hither  ?  Have  you  no  trust  in 
your  husband?"  cried  he,  impetuously.  "  Would  you 
throw  the  blight  of  that  fatal  birthmark  over  my  la 
bors  ?  It  is  not  well  done.  Go,  prying  woman,  go !  " 

"  Nay,  Aylmer,"  said  Georgiana  with  the  firmness 
of  which  she  possessed  no  stinted  endowment,  "  it  is 
not  you  that  have  a  right  to  complain.  You  mistrust 
your  wife ;  you  have  concealed  the  anxiety  with  which 
-you  watch  the  development  of  this  experiment.  Think 
not  so  unworthily  of  me,  my  husband.  Tell  me  all 
the  risk  we  run,  and  fear  not  that  I  shall  shrink  ;  for 
my  share  in  it  is  far  less  than  your  own." 

"  No,  no,  Georgiana !  "  said  Aylmer,  impatiently ; 
"  it  must  not  be." 

"  I  submit,"  replied  she  calmly.  "  And,  Aylmer,  I 
shall  quaff  whatever  draught  you  bring  me ;  but  it  will 
be  on  the  same  principle  that  would  induce  me  to  take 
a  dose  of  poison  if  offered  by  your  hand." 

"  My  noble  wife,"  said  Aylmer,  deeply  moved,  "  I 
knew  not  the  height  and  depth  of  your  nature  until 
now.  Nothing  shall  be  concealed.  Know,  then,  that 
this  crimson  hand,  superficial  as  it  seems,  has  clutched 
its  grasp  into  your  being  with  a  strength  of  which  I 
had  no  previous  conception.  I  have  already  adminis 
tered  agents  powerful  enough  te  do  aught  except  to 
change  your  entire  physical  system.  Only  one  thing 
remains  to  be  tried.  If  that  fail  us  we  are  ruined." 

"  Why  did  you  hesitate  to  tell  me  this  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Because,  Georgiana,"  said  Aylmer,  in  a  low  voice, 
w  there  is  danger." 

"Danger?  There  is  but  one  danger  —  that  this 
terrible  stigma  shall  be  left  upon  my  cheek !  "  cried 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  65 

Georgiana.  "  Kemove  it,  remove  it,  whatever  be  the 
cost,  or  we  shall  both  go  mad  !  " 

"  Heaven  knows  your  words  are  too  true,"  said  Ayl 
mer,  sadly.  "And  now,  dearest,  return  to  your  bou 
doir.  In  a  little  while  all  will  be  tested." 

He  conducted  her  back  and  took  leave  of  her  with 
a  solemn  tenderness  which  spoke  far  more  than  his 
words  how  much  was  now  at  stake.  After  his  de 
parture  Georgiana  became  rapt  in  musings.  She  con 
sidered  the  character  of  Aylmer,  and  did  it  completer 
justice  than  at  any  previous  moment.  Her  heart  ex 
ulted,  while  it  trembled,  at  his  honorable  love  —  so 
pure  and  lofty  that  it  would  accept  nothing  less  than 
perfection  nor  miserably  make  itself  contented  with  an 
earthlier  nature  than  he  had  dreamed  of.  She  felt 
how  much  more  precious  was  such  a  sentiment  than 
that  meaner  kind  which  would  have  borne  with  the 
imperfection  for  her  sake,  and  have  been  guilty  of 
treason  to  holy  love  by  degrading  its  perfect  idea  to 
the  level  of  the  actual ;  and  with  her  whole  spirit  she 
prayed  that,  for  a  single  moment,  she  might  satisfy  his 
highest  and  deepest  conception.  Longer  than  one  mo 
ment  she  well  knew  it  could  not  be  ;  for  his  spirit  was 
ever  on  the  march,  ever  ascending,  and  each  instant 
required  something  that  was  beyond  the  scope  of  the 
kistant  before. 

The  sound  of  her  husband's  footsteps  aroused  her. 
He  bore  a  crystal  goblet  containing  a  liquor  colorless 
as  water,  but  bright  enough  to  be  the  draught  of  im 
mortality.  Aylmer  was  pale  ;  but  it  seemed  rather 
the  consequence  of  a  highly- wrought  state  of  mind  and 
tension  of  spirit  than  of  fear  or  doubt. 

"  The  concoction  of  the  draught  has  been  perfect," 

VOL.  n.  5 


66  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

said  he,  in  answer  to  Georgiana's  look.  "  Unless  all 
my  science  have  deceived  me,  it  cannot  fail." 

"  Save  on  your  account,  my  dearest  Aylmer,"  ob 
served  his  wife,  "  I  might  wish  to  put  off  this  birth 
mark  of  mortality  by  relinquishing  mortality  itself  in 
preference  to  any  other  mode.  Life  is  but  a  sad  pos 
session  to  those  who  have  attained  precisely  the  degree 
of  moral  advancement  at  which  I  stand.  Were  I 
weaker  and  blinder  it  might  be  happiness.  Were  I 
stronger,  it  might  be  endured  hopefully.  But,  being 
what  I  find  myself,  methinks  I  am  of  all  mortals  the 
most  fit  to  die." 

"  You  are  fit  for  heaven  without  tasting  death ! "  re 
plied  her  husband.  "  But  why  do  we  speak  of  dying? 
The  draught  cannot  fail.  Behold  its  effect  upon  this 
plant." 

On  the  window  seat  there  stood  a  geranium  diseased 
with  yellow  blotches,  which  had  overspread  all  its 
leaves.  Aylmer  poured  a  small  quantity  of  the  liquid 
upon  the  soil  in  which  it  grew.  In  a  little  time,  when 
the  roots  of  the  plant  had  taken  up  the  moisture,  the 
unsightly  blotches  began  to  be  extinguished  in  a  living 
verdure. 

"  There  needed  no  proof,"  said  Georgiana,  quietly. 
"  Give  me  the  goblet.  I  joyfully  stake  all  upon  your 
word." 

"  Drink,  then,  thou  lofty  creature !  "  exclaimed  Ayl 
mer,  with  fervid  admiration.  "  There  is  no  taint  of 
imperfection  on  thy  spirit.  Thy  sensible  frame,  too, 
shall  soon  be  all  perfect." 

She  quaffed  the  liquid  and  returned  the  goblet  to 
his  hand. 

"  It  is  grateful,"  said  she  with  a  placid  smile.  "  Me 
thinks  it  is  like  water  from  a  heavenly  fountain ;  for  it 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  67 

contains  1  know  not  what  of  unobtrusive  fragrance 
and  deliciousness.  It  allays  a  feverish  thirst  that  had 
parched  me  for  many  days.  Now,  dearest,  let  me 
sleep.  My  earthly  senses  are  closing  over  my  spirit 
like  the  leaves  around  the  heart  of  a  rose  at  sunset." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  gentle  reluctance, 
as  if  it  required  almost  more  energy  than  she  could 
command  to  pronounce  the  faint  and  lingering  sylla 
bles.  Sr  ircely  had  they  loitered  through  her  lips  ere 
she  was  lost  in  slumber.  Aylmer  sat  by  her  side, 
watching  her  aspect  with  the  emotions  proper  to  a  man 
the  whole  value  of  whose  existence  was  involved  in  the 
process  now  to  be  tested.  Mingled  with  this  mood, 
however,  was  the  philosophic  investigation  characteris 
tic  of  the  man  of  science.  Not  the  minutest  symptom 
escaped  him.  A  heightened  flush  of  the  cheek,  a 
slight  irregularity  of  breath,  a  quiver  of  the  eyelid,  a 
hardly  perceptible  tremor  through  the  frame,  —  such 
were  the  details  which,  as  the  moments  passed,  he 
wrote  down  in  his  folio  volume.  Intense  thought  had 
set  its  stamp  upon  every  previous  page  of  that  volume, 
but  the  thoughts  of  years  were  all  concentrated  upon 
the  last. 

While  thus  employed,  he  failed  not  to  gaze  often  at 
the  fatal  hand,  and  not  without  a  shudder.  Yet  once,  \ 
by  a  strange  and  unaccountable  impulse,  he  pressed  it  / 
with  his  lips.  His  spirit  recoiled,  however,  in  the  very 
act ;  and  Georgiana,  out  of  the  midst  of  her  deep  sleep, 
moved  uneasily  and  murmured  as  if  in  remonstrance0 
Again  Aylmer  resumed  his  watch.  Nor  was  it  without 
avail.  The  crimson  hand,  which  at  first  had  been 
strongly  visible  upon  the  marble  paleness  of  Georgi 
ana' s  cheek,  now  grew  more  faintly  outlined.  She  re 
mained  not  less  pale  than  ever ;  but  the  birthmark, 


68  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

with  every  breath  that  came  and  went,  lost  somewhat 
of  its  former  distinctness.  Its  presence  had  been  aw 
ful  ;  its  departure  was  more  awful  still.  Watch  the 
stain  of  the  rainbow  fading  out  of  the  sky,  and  you 
will  know  how  that  mysterious  symbol  passed  away. 

"  By  Heaven  !  it  is  well-nigh  gone !  "  said  Aylmer 
to  himself,  in  almost  irrepressible  ecstasy.  "  I  can 
scarcely  trace  it  now.  Success !  success  !  And  now 
it  is  like  the  faintest  rose  color.  The  lightest  flush  of 
blood  across  her  cheek  would  overcome  it.  But  she  is 
so  pale ! " 

He  drew  aside  the  window  curtain  and  suffered  the 
light  of  natural  day  to  fall  into  the  room  and  rest 
upon  her  cheek.  At  the  same  tune  he  heard  a  gross, 
hoarse  chuckle,  which  he  had  long  known  as  his  ser 
vant  Aminadab's  expression  of  delight. 

"  Ah,  clod  !  ah,  earthly  mass  !  "  cried  Aylmer, 
laughing  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  "you  have  served  me 
well !  Matter  and  spirit  —  earth  and  heaven  —  have 
both  done  their  part  in  this !  Laugh,  thing  of  the 
senses !  You  have  earned  the  right  to  laugh." 

These  exclamations  broke  Georgiana's  sleep.  She 
slowly  unclosed  her  eyes  and  gazed  into  the  mirror 
which  her  husband  had  arranged  for  that  purpose.  A 
faint  smile  flitted  over  her  lips  when  she  recognized 
how  barely  perceptible  was  now  that  crimson  hand 
which  had  once  blazed  forth  with  such  disastrous 
brilliancy  as  to  scare  away  all  their  happiness.  But 
then  her  eyes  sought  Aylmer 's  face  with  a  trouble  and 
anxiety  that  he  could  by  no  means  account  for. 

"  My  poor  Aylmer !  "  murmured  she. 

"  Poor  ?  Nay,  richest,  happiest,  most  favored !  " 
exclaimed  he.  "  My  peerless  bride,  it  is  successful  I 
You  are  perfect !  " 


THE  BIRTHMARK.  69 

"  My  poor  Aylmer,"  she  repeated,  with  a  more 
than  human  tenderness,  "  you  have  aimed  loftily  ;  you 
have  done  nobly.  Do  not  repent  that jvith  .  s_o. .high  and 
pure  a  feeling,  you  have  rejected  the  best  the  earth 
could  offer.  Aylmer,  dearest  Aylmer,  I  am  dying !  " 

Alas  !  it  was  too  true !  The  fatal  hand  had  grap 
pled  with  the  mystery  of  life,  and  was  the  bond  by 
which  an  angelic  spirit  kept  itself  in  union  with  a 
mortal  frame.  As  the  last  crimson  tint  of  the  birth 
mark  —  that  sole  token  of  human  imperfection  — 
faded  from  her  cheek,  the  parting  breath  of  the  now 
perfect  woman  passed  into  the  atmosphere,  and  her 
soul,  lingering  a  moment  near  her  husband,  took  its 
heavenward  flight.  Then  a  hoarse,  chuckling  laugh 
was  heard  again  !  Thus  ever  does  the  gross  fatality 
of  earth  exult  in  its  invariable  triumph  over  the  im 
mortal  essence  which,  in  this  dim  sphere  of  half  devel 
opment,  demands  the  completeness  of  a  higher  state. 
]fet,  had  Aylmer  reached  a  prof  ounder  wisdom,  he  v 
need  not  thus  have  flung  away  the  happiness  which 
would  have  woven  his  mortal  life  of  the  selfsame  text 
ure  with  the  celestial.  The  momentary  circumstance 
was  too  strong  for  him ;  he  failed  to  look  beyond  the 
shadowy  scope  of  time,  and,  living  once  for  all  in  eteiv 
nity,  to  find  the  perfect  future  in  the  present. 


A   SELECT   PARTY. 

A  MAN  OF  FANCY  made  an  entertainment  at  one  of 
his  castles  in  the  air,  and  invited  a  select  number  of 
distinguished  personages  to  favor  him  with  their  pres 
ence.  The  mansion,  though  less  splendid  than  many 
that  have  been  situated  in  the  same  region,  was  never 
theless  of  a  magnificence  such  as  is  seldom  witnessed 
by  those  acquainted  only  with  terrestrial  architecture. 
Its  strong  foundations  and  massive  walls  were  quarried 
out  of  a  ledge  of  heavy  and  sombre  clouds  which  had 
hung  brooding  over  the  earth,  apparently  as  dense  and 
ponderous  as  its  own  granite,  throughout  a  whole 
autumnal  day.  Perceiving  that  the  general  effect  was 
gloomy,  —  so  that  the  airy  castle  looked  like  a  feudal 
fortress,  or  a  monastery  of  the  Middle  Ages,  or  a  state- 
prison  of  our  own  times,  rather  than  the  home  of 
pleasure  and  repose  which  he  intended  it  to  be,  —  the 
owner,  regardless  of  expense,  resolved  to  gild  the  ex 
terior  from  top  to  bottom.  Fortunately,  there  was  just 
then  a  flood  of  evening  sunshine  in  the  air.  This  being 
gathered  up  and  poured  abundantly  upon  the  roof  and 
walls,  imbued  them  with  a  kind  of  solemn  cheerful 
ness  ;  while  the  cupolas  and  pinnacles  were  made  to 
glitter  with  the  purest  gold;  and  all  the  hundred  win 
dows  gleamed  with  a  glad  light,  as  if  the  edifice  itself 
were  rejoicing  in  its  heart.  And  now,  if  the  people  of 
the  lower  world  chanced  to  be  looking  upward  out  of 
the  turmoil  of  their  petty  perplexities,  they  probably 
mistook  the  castle  in  the  air  for  a  heap  of  sunset 


A    SELECT  PARTY.  71 

clouds  to  which  the  magic  of  light  and  shade  had  im 
parted  the  aspect  of  a  fantastically  constructed  man 
sion.  To  such  beholders  it  was  unreal,  because  they 
lacked  the  imaginative  faith.  Had  they  been  worthy 
to  pass  within  its  portal,  they  would  have  recognized 
the  truth,  that  the  dominions  which  the  spirit  con 
quers  for  itself,  among  unrealities  become  a  thousand 
times  more  real  than  the  earth  whereon  they  stamp 
their  feet,  saying,  "  This  is  solid  and  substantial ;  this 
may  be  called  a  fact." 

At  the  appointed  hour,  the  host  stood  in  his  great 
saloon  to  receive  the  company.  It  was  a  vast  and 
noble  room,  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  which  was  supported 
by  double  rows  of  gigantic  pillars  that  had  been  hewn 
entire  out  of  masses  of  variegated  clouds.  So  bril 
liantly  were  they  polished,  and  so  exquisitely  wrought 
by  the  sculptor's  skill,  as  to  resemble  the  finest  speci 
mens  of  emerald,  porphyry,  opal,  and  chrysolite,  thus 
producing  a  delicate  richness  of  effect  which  their  im 
mense  size  rendered  not  incompatible  with  grandeur. 
To  each  of  these  pillars  a  meteor  was  suspended. 
Thousands  of  these  ethereal  lustres  are  continually 
wandering  about  the  firmament,  burning  out  to  waste, 
yet  capable  of  imparting  a  useful  radiance  to  any  per 
son  who  has  the  art  of  converting  them  to  domestic 
purposes.  As  managed  in  the  saloon,  they  are  far 
more  economical  than  ordinary  lamplight.  Such, 
however,  was  the  intensity  of  their  blaze  that  it  had 
been  found  expedient  to  cover  each  meteor  with  a 
globe  of  evening  mist,  thereby  muffling  the  too  potent 
glow  and  soothing  it  into  a  mild  and  comfortable 
splendor.  It  was  like  the  brilliancy  of  a  powerful  yet 
chastened  imagination  —  a  light  which  seemed  to  hide 
whatever  was  unworthy  to  be  noticed  and  give  effect 


72  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

to  every  beautiful  and  noble  attribute.  The  guests, 
therefore,  as  they  advanced  up  the  centre  of  the  sa 
loon  appeared  to  better  advantage  than  ever  before  in 
their  lives. 

The  first  that  entered,  with  old-fashioned  punctual 
ity,  was  a  venerable  figure  in  the  costume  of  by-gone 
days,  with  his  white  hair  flowing  down  over  his  shoul 
ders  and  a  reverend  beard  upon  his  breast.  He  leaned 
upon  a  staff,  the  tremulous  stroke  of  which,  as  he  set  it 
carefully  upon  the  floor,  reechoed  through  the  saloon 
at  every  footstep.  Recognizing  at  once  this  celebrated 
personage,  whom  it  had  cost  him  a  vast  deal  of  trouble 
and  research  to  discover,  the  host  advanced  nearly 
three  fourths  of  the  distance  down  between  the  pillars 
to  meet  and  welcome  him. 

"  Venerable  sir,"  said  the  Man  of  Fancy,  bending 
to  the  floor,  "  the  honor  of  this  visit  would  never  be 
forgotten  were  my  term  of  existence  to  be  as  happily 
prolonged  as  your  own." 

The  old  gentleman  received  the  compliment  with 
gracious  condescension.  He  then  thrust  up  his  spec 
tacles  over  his  forehead  and  appeared  to  take  a  critical 
survey  of  the  saloon. 

"  Never  within  my  recollection,"  observed  he,  "  have 
I  entered  a  more  spacious  and  noble  hall.  But  are 
you  sure  that  it  is  built  of  solid  materials  and  that  the 
structure  will  be  permanent  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never  fear,  my  venerable  friend,"  replied  the 
host.  "  In  reference  to  a  lifetime  like  your  own,  it  is 
true,  my  castle  may  well  be  called  a  temporary  edifice. 
But  it  will  endure  long  enough  to  answer  all  the  pur 
poses  for  which  it  was  erected." 

But  we  forget  that  the  reader  has  not  yet  been  made 
acquainted  with  the  guest.  It  was  no  other  than  that 


A    SELECT  PARTY.  73 

universally  accredited  character  so  constantly  referred 
to  in  all  seasons  of  intense  cold  or  heat ;  he  that  re 
members  the  hot  Sunday  and  the  cold  Friday;  the 
witness  of  a  past  age,  whose  negative  reminiscences 
find  their  way  into  every  newspaper,  yet  whose  anti 
quated  and  dusky  abode  is  so  overshadowed  by  accu 
mulated  years  and  crowded  back  by  modern  edifices 
that  none  but  the  Man  of  Fancy  could  have  discovered 
it;  it  was,  in  short,  that  twin  brother  of  Time,  and 
great-grandsire  of  mankind,  and  hand-and-glove  asso 
ciate  of  all  forgotten  men  and  things  —  the  Oldest  In 
habitant.  The  host  would  willingly  have  drawn  him 
into  conversation,  but  succeeded  only  in  eliciting  a  few 
remarks  as  to  the  oppressive  atmosphere  of  this  present 
summer  evening  compared  with  one  which  the  guest 
had  experienced  about  fourscore  years  ago.  The  old 
gentleman,  in  fact,  was  a  good  deal  overcome  by  his 
journey  among  the  clouds,  which,  to  a  frame  so  earth- 
incrusted  by  long  continuance  in  a  lower  region,  was 
unavoidably  more  fatiguing  than  to  younger  spirits. 
He  was  therefore  conducted  to  an  easy-chair,  well 
cushioned  and  stuffed  with  vaporous  softness,  and  left 
to  take  a  little  repose. 

The  Man  of  Fancy  now  discerned  another  guest, 
who  stood  so  quietly  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  pil 
lars  that  he  might  easily  have  been  overlooked. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  the  host,  grasping  him 
warmly  by  the  hand,  "  allow  me  to  greet  you  as  the 
hero  of  the  evening.  Pray  do  not  take  it  as  an  empty 
compliment;  for  if  there  were  not  another  guest  in 
my  castle,  it  would  be  entirely  pervaded  with  your 
presence." 

"  I  thank  you,"  answered  the  unpretending  stranger ; 
*  but,  though  you  happened  to  overlook  me,  I  have  not 


74  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

just  arrived.  I  came  very  early ;  and,  with  your  per 
mission,  shall  remain  after  the  rest  of  the  company 
have  retired." 

And  who  does  the  reader  imagine  was  this  unobtru 
sive  guest  ?  It  was  the  famous  performer  of  acknowl 
edged  impossibilities  —  a  character  of  superhuman 
capacity  and  virtue,  and,  if  his  enemies  are  to  be  cred 
ited,  of  no  less  remarkable  weaknesses  and  defects. 
With  a  generosity  with  which  he  alone  sets  us  an  ex 
ample,  we  will  glance  merely  at  his  nobler  attributes. 
He  it  is,  then,  who  prefers  the  interests  of  others  to 
his  own,  and  a  humble  station  to  an  exalted  one. 
Careless  of  fashion,  custom,  the  opinions  of  men,  and 
the  influence  of  the  press,  he  assimilates  his  life  to  the 
standard  of  ideal  rectitude,  and  thus  proves  himself 
the  one  independent  citizen  of  our  free  country.  In 
point  of  ability,  many  people  declare  him  to  be  the 
only  mathematician  capable  of  squaring  the  circle ;  the 
only  mechanic  acquainted  with  the  principle  of  perpet 
ual  motion;  the  only  scientific  philosopher  who  can 
compel  water  to  run  up  hill ;  the  only  writer  of  the 
age  whose  genius  is  equal  to  the  production  of  an  epic 
poem ;  and  finally,  so  various  are  his  accomplishments, 
the  only  professor  of  gymnastics  who  has  succeeded  in 
jumping  down  his  own  throat.  With  all  these  talents, 
however,  he  is  so  far  from  being  considered  a  member 
of  good  society  that  it  is  the  severest  censure  of  any 
fashionable  assemblage  to  affirm  that  this  remarkable 
individual  was  present.  Public  orators,  lecturers  and 
theatrical  performers  particularly  eschew  his  company. 
For  especial  reasons  we  are  not  at  liberty  to  disclose 
his  name,  and  shall  mention  only  one  other  trait,  —  a 
most  singular  phenomenon  in  natural  philosophy, — 
that,  when  he  happens  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  a  looking 
glass,  he  beholds  Nobody  reflected  there  1 


A   SELECT  PARTY.  75 

Several  other  guests  now  made  their  appearance ; 
and  among  them,  chattering  with  immense  volubility, 
a  brisk  little  gentleman  of  universal  vogue  in  private 
society,  and  not  unknown  in  the  public  journals  under 
the  title  of  Monsieur  On-Dit.  The  name  would  seem 
to  indicate  a  Frenchman ;  but,  whatever  be  his  coun 
try,  he  is  thoroughly  versed  in  all  the  languages  of  the 
day,  and  can  express  himself  quite  as  much  to  the  pur 
pose  in  English  as  in  any  other  tongue.  No  sooner 
were  the  ceremonies  of  salutation  over  than  this  talka 
tive  little  person  put  his  mouth  to  the  host's  ear  and 
whispered  three  secrets  of  state,  an  important  piece  of 
commercial  intelligence,  and  a  rich  item  of  fashionable 
scandal.  He  then  assured  the  Man  of  Fancy  that  he 
would  not  fail  to  circulate  in  the  society  of  the  lower 
world  a  minute  description  of  this  magnificent  castle  in 
the  air  and  of  the  festivities  at  which  he  had  the  honor 
to  be  a  guest.  So  saying,  Monsieur  On-Dit  made  his 
bow  and  hurried  from  one  to  another  of  the  company, 
with  all  of  whom  he  seemed  to  be  acquainted  and  to 
possess  some  topic  of  interest  or  amusement  for  every 
individual.  Coming  at  last  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant, 
who  was  slumbering  comfortably  in  the  easy-chair,  he 
applied  his  mouth  to  that  venerable  ear. 

"  What  do  you  say  ? "  cried  the  old  gentleman, 
starting  from  his  nap  and  putting  up  his  hand  to 
serve  the  purpose  of  an  ear  trumpet. 

Monsieur  On-Dit  bent  forward  again  and  repeated 
his  communication. 

"  Never  within  my  memory,"  exclaimed  the  Oldest 
Inhabitant,  lifting  his  hands  in  astonishment,  "  has  so 
remarkable  an  incident  been  heard  of." 

Now  came  in  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather,  who  had 
been  invited  out  of  deference  to  his  official  station, 


76  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

although  the  host  was  well  aware  that  his  conversation 
was  likely  to  contribute  but  little  to  the  general  enjoy 
ment.  He  soon,  indeed,  got  into  a  corner  with  his 
acquaintance  of  long  ago,  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  and 
began  to  compare  notes  with  him  in  reference  to  the 
great  storms,  gales  of  wind,  and  other  atmospherical 
facts  that  had  occurred  during  a  century  past.  It  re 
joiced  the  Man  of  Fancy  that  his  venerable  and  much- 
respected  guest  had  met  with  so  congenial  an  associate. 
Entreating  them  both  to  make  themselves  perfectly 
at  home,  he  now  turned  to  receive  the  Wandering 
Jew.  This  personage,  however,  had  latterly  grown  so 
common  by  mingling  in  all  sorts  of  society  and  appear 
ing  at  the  beck  of  every  entertainer,  that  he  could 
hardly  be  deemed  a  proper  guest  in  a  very  exclusive 
circle.  Besides,  being  covered  with  dust  from  his  con 
tinual  wanderings  along  the  highways  of  the  world, 
he  really  looked  out  of  place  in  a  dress  party;  so  that 
the  host  felt  relieved  of  an  incommodity  when  the  rest 
less  individual  in  question,  after  a  brief  stay,  took  his 
departure  on  a  ramble  towards  Oregon. 

The  portal  was  now  thronged  by  a  crowd  of  shad* 
owy  people  with  whom  the  Man  of  Fancy  had  been  ac 
quainted  in  his  visionary  youth.  He  had  invited  them 
hither  for  the  sake  of  observing  how  they  would  com 
pare,  whether  advantageously  or  otherwise,  with  the 
real  characters  to  whom  his  maturer  life  had  intro 
duced  him.  They  were  beings  of  crude  imagination, 
such  as  glide  before  a  young  man's  eye  and  pretend  to 
be  actual  inhabitants  of  the  earth ;  the  wise  and  witty 
with  whom  he  would  hereafter  hold  intercourse ;  the 
generous  and  heroic  friends  whose  devotion  would  be 
requited  with  his  own ;  the  beautiful  dream  woman 
who  would  become  the  helpmate  of  his  human  toils 


A   SELECT  PARTY.  77 

and  sorrows,  and  at  once  the  source  and  partaker  pi 
his  happiness.  Alas !  it  is  not  good  for  the  f ullgrown 
man  to  look  too  closely  at  these  old  acquaintances,  but 
rather  to  reverence  them  at  a  distance  through  the 
medium  of  years  that  have  gathered  duskily  between* 
There  was  something  laughably  untrue  in  their  pomp 
ous  stride  and  exaggerated  sentiment ;  they  were  nei 
ther  human  nor  tolerable  likenesses  of  humanity,  but 
fantastic  maskers,  rendering  heroism  and  nature  alike 
ridiculous  by  the  grave  absurdity  of  their  pretensions 
to  such  attributes ;  and  as  for  the  peerless  dream  lady, 
behold !  there  advanced  up  the  saloon,  with  a  move 
ment  like  a  jointed  doll,  a  sort  of  wax  figure  of  an 
angel,  a  creature  as  cold  as  moonshine,  an  artifice  in 
petticoats,  with  an  intellect  of  pretty  phrases  and  only 
the  semblance  of  a  heart,  yet  in  all  these  particulars 
the  true  type  of  a  young  man's  imaginary  mistress. 
Hardly  could  the  host's  punctilious  courtesy  restrain  a 
smile  as  he  paid  his  respects  to  this  unreality,  and  met 
the  sentimental  glance  with  which  the  Dream  sought 
to  remind  him  of  their  former  love  passages. 

"  No,  no,  fair  lady,"  murmured  he  betwixt  sighing 
and  smiling,  "  my  taste  is  changed ;  I  have  learned  to 
love  what  Nature  makes  better  than  my  own  creations 
in  the  guise  of  womanhood." 

"  Ah,  false  one,"  shrieked  the  dream  lady,  pretend 
ing  to  faint,  but  dissolving  into  thin  air,  out  of  which 
came  the  deplorable  murmur  of  her  voice,  "  your  in 
constancy  has  annihilated  me." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  cruel  Man  of  Fancy  to  him 
self  ;  "  and  a  good  riddance  too." 

Together  with  these  shadows,  and  from  the  same 
region,  there  came  an  uninvited  multitude  of  shapes 
whicL  at  any  time  during  his  life  had  tormented  the 


T8  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Man  of  Fancy  in  his  moods  of  morbid  melancholy  01 
had  haunted  him  in  the  delirium  of  fever.  The  walls 
of  his  castle  in  the  air  were  not  dense  enough  to  keep 
them  out,  nor  would  the  strongest  of  earthly  architect 
ure  have  availed  to  their  exclusion.  Here  were  those 
forms  of  dim  terror  which  had  beset  him  at  the  en 
trance  of  life,  waging  warfare  with  his  hopes ;  here 
were  strange  uglinesses  of  earlier  date,  such  as  haunt 
children  in  the  night-time.  He  was  particularly  star 
tled  by  the  vision  of  a  deformed  old  black  woman 
whom  he  imagined  as  lurking  in  the  garret  of  his 
native  home,  and  who,  when  he  was  an  infant,  had 
once  come  to  his  bedside  and  grinned  at  him  in  the 
crisis  of  a  scarlet  fever.  This  same  black  shadow, 
with  others  almost  as  hideous,  now  glided  among  the 
pillars  of  the  magnificent  saloon,  grinning  recognition, 
until  the  man  shuddered  anew  at  the  forgotten  terrors 
of  his  childhood.  It  amused  him,  however,  to  ob 
serve  the  black  woman,  with  the  mischievous  caprice 
peculiar  to  such  beings,  steal  up  to  the  chair  of  the 
Oldest  Inhabitant  and  peep  into  his  half-dreamy 
mind. 

"  Never  within  my  memory,"  muttered  that  venera 
ble  personage,  aghast,  "  did  I  see  such  a  face." 

Almost  immediately  after  the  unrealities  just  de* 
scribed,  arrived  a  number  of  guests  whom  incredulous 
readers  may  be  inclined  to  rank  equally  among  crea 
tures  of  imagination.  The  most  noteworthy  were  an 
incorruptible  Patriot ;  a  Scholar  without  pedantry ;  a 
Priest  without  worldly  ambition ;  and  a  Beautiful 
Woman  without  pride  or  coquetry ;  a  Married  Pail 
whose  life  had  never  been  disturbed  by  incongruity  of 
feeling ;  a  Reformer  untrammelled  by  his  theory ;  and 
ft  Poet  who  felt  no  jealousy  towards  other  votaries  of 


A   SELECT  PARTY.  79 

the  lyre.  In  truth,  however,  the  host  was  not  one  of 
the  cynics  who  consider  these  patterns  of  excellence, 
without  the  fatal  flaw,  such  rarities  in  the  world  ;  and 
he  had  invited  them  to  his  select  party  chiefly  out  of 
humble  deference  to  the  judgment  of  society,  which 
pronounces  them  almost  impossible  to  be  met  with. 

"  In  my  younger  days,"  observed  the  Oldest  Inhab 
itant,  "  such  characters  might  be  seen  at  the  corner  of 
every  street." 

Be  that  as  it  might,  these  specimens  of  perfection 
proved  to  be  not  half  so  entertaining  companions  as 
people  with  the  ordinary  allowance  of  faults. 

But  now  appeared  a  stranger,  whom  the  host  had  no 
sooner  recognized  than,  with  an  abundance  of  courtesy 
unlavished  on  any  other,  he  hastened  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  saloon*  in  order  to  pay  him  emphatic 
honor.  Yet  he  was  a  young  man  in  poor  attire,  with 
no  insignia  of  rank  or  acknowledged  eminence,  nor 
anything  to  distinguish  him  among  the  crowd  except  a 
high,  white  forehead,  beneath  which  a  pair  of  deepest 
eyes  were  glowing  with  warm  light.  It  was  such  a 
Jight  as  never  illuminates  the  earth  save  when  a  great 
heart  burns  as  the  household  fire  of  a  grand  intellect. 
And  who  was  he  ?  —  who  but  the  Master  Genius  for 
whom  our  country  is  looking  anxiously  into  the  mist  of 
Time,  as  destined  to  fulfil  the  great  mission  of  creat 
ing  an  American  literature,  hewing  it,  as  it  were,  out 
of  the  unwrought  granite  of  our  intellectual  quar 
ries  ?  From  him,  whether  moulded  in  the  form  of  an 
epic  poem  or  assuming  a  guise  altogether  new  as  the 
spirit  itself  may  determine,  we  are  to  receive  our  first 
great  original  work,  which  shall  do  all  that  remains  to 
be  achieved  for  our  glory  among  the  nations.  How 
ihis  child  of  a  mighty  destiny  had  been  discovered  b^ 


80  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE, 

the  Man  of  Fancy  it  is  of  little  consequence  to  men* 
tion.  Suffice  it  that  he  dwells  as  yet  unhonored  among 
men,  unrecognized  by  those  who  have  known  him  from 
his  cradle  ;  the  noble  countenance  which  should  be  dis 
tinguished  by  a  halo  diffused  around  it  passes  daily 
amid  the  throng  of  people  toiling  and  troubling  them 
selves  about  the  trifles  of  a  moment,  and  none  pay 
reverence  to  the  worker  of  immortality.  Nor  does  it 
matter  much  to  him,  in  his  triumph  over  all  the  ages, 
though  a  generation  or  two  of  his  own  times  shall  do 
themselves  the  wrong  to  disregard  him. 

By  this  time  Monsieur  On-Dit  had  caught  up  the 
stranger's  name  and  destiny,  and  was  busily  whisper 
ing  the  intelligence  among  the  other  guests. 

"  Pshaw !  "  said  one.  "  There  can  never  be  an 
American  genius." 

"  Pish !  "  cried  another.  "  We  have  already  as 
good  poets  as  any  in  the  world.  For  my  part  I  desire 
to  see  no  better." 

And  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  when  it  was  proposed  to 
introduce  him  to  the  Master  Genius,  begged  to  be  ex 
cused,  observing  that  a  man  who  had  been  honored 
with  the  acquaintance  of  Dwight,  and  Freneau,  and 
Joel  Barlow,  might  be  allowed  a  little  austerity  of 
taste. 

The  saloon  was  now  fast  filling  up  by  the  arrival  of 
other  remarkable  characters,  among  whom  were  no 
ticed  Davy  Jones,  the  distinguished  nautical  person 
age,  and  a  rude,  carelessly-dressed,  harum-scarum  sort 
of  elderly  fellow,  known  by  the  nickname  of  Old 
Harry.  The  latter,  however,  after  being  shown  to  a 
dressing-room,  reappeared  with  his  gray  hair  nicely 
combed,  his  clothes  brushed,  a  clean  dicky  on  his  neck, 
and  altogether  so  changed  in  aspect  as  to  merit  the 


A    SELECT  PARTY.  81 

more  respectful  appellation  of  Venerable  Henry.  John 
Doe  and  Richard  Roe  came  arm  in  arm,  accompanied 
by  a  Man  of  Straw,  a  fictitious  indorser,  and  several 
persons  who  had  no  existence  except  as  voters  in 
closely-contested  elections.  The  celebrated  Sealsfield, 
who  now  entered,  was  at  first  supposed  to  belong  to 
the  same  brotherhood,  until  he  made  it  apparent  that 
he  was  a  real  man  of  flesh  and  blood  and  had  his 
earthly  domicile  in  Germany.  Among  the  latest  com 
ers,  as  might  reasonably  be  expected,  arrived  a  guest 
from  the  far  future. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  do  you  know  him  ?  "  whis 
pered  Monsieur  On-Dit,  who  seemed  to  be  acquainted 
with  everybody.  "  He  is  the  representative  of  Poster 
ity,  —  the  man  of  an  age  to  come." 

"  And  how  came  he  here  ?  "  asked  a  figure  who  was 
evidently  the  prototype  of  the  fashion  plate  in  a  mag 
azine,  and  might  be  taken  to  represent  the  vanities  oi 
the  passing  moment.  "  The  fellow  infringes  upon  oui 
rights  by  coming  before  his  time." 

"  But  you  forget  where  we  are,"  answered  the  Man 
of  Fancy,  who  overheard  the  remark.  "  The  lower 
earth,  it  is  true,  will  be  forbidden  ground  to  him  for 
many  long  years  hence ;  but  a  castle  in  the  air  is  a 
sort  of  no  man's  land,  where  Posterity  may  make  ac 
quaintance  with  us  on  equal  terms." 

No  sooner  was  his  identity  known  than  a  throng  of 
guests  gathered  about  Posterity,  all  expressing  the 
most  generous  interest  in  his  welfare,  and  many  boast 
ing  of  the  sacrifices  which  they  had  made,  or  were 
willing  to  make,  in  his  behalf.  Some,  with  as  much 
secrecy  as  possible,  desired  his  judgment  upon  certain 
copies  of  verses  or  great  manuscript  rolls  of  prose; 
others  accosted  him  with  the  familiarity  of  old  friends, 


82  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

taking  it  for  granted  that  he  was  perfectly  cognizant 
of  their  names  and  characters.  At  length,  finding 
nimself  thus  beset,  Posterity  was  put  quite  beside  his 
patience. 

"  Gentlemen,  my  good  friends,"  cried  he,  breaking 
loose  from  a  misty  poet  who  strove  to  hold  him  by  the 
button,  "  I  pray  you  to  attend  to  your  own  business, 
and  leave  me  to  take  care  of  mine  !  I  expect  to  owe 
you  nothing,  unless  it  be  certain  national  debts,  and 
other  encumbrances  and  impediments,  physical  and 
moral,  which  I  shall  find  it  troublesome  enough  to  re 
move  from  my  path.  As  to  your  verses,  pray  read 
them  to  your  contemporaries.  Your  names  are  as 
strange  to  me  as  your  faces  ;  and  even  were  it  other 
wise, —  let  me  whisper  you  a  secret,  —  the  cold,  icy 
memory  which  one  generation  may  retain  of  another 
is  but  a  poor  recompense  to  barter  life  for.  Yet,  if 
your  heart  is  set  on  being  known  to  me,  the  surest,  the 
only  method  is  to  live  truly  and  wisely  for  your  own 
age,  whereby,  if  the  native  force  be  in  you,  you  may 
likewise  live  for  posterity." 

"  It  is  nonsense,"  murmured  the  Oldest  Inhabitant, 
who,  as  a  man  of  the  past,  felt  jealous  that  all  notice 
should  be  withdrawn  from  himself  to  be  lavished  on 
the  future,  "  sheer  nonsense  to  waste  so  much  thought 
on  what  only  is  to  be." 

To  divert  the  minds  of  his  guests,  who  were  con 
siderably  abashed  by  this  little  incident,  the  Man  of 
Fancy  led  them  through  several  apartments  of  the 
castle,  receiving  their  compliments  upon  the  taste  and 
varied  magnificence  that  were  displayed  in  each.  One 
of  these  rooms  was  filled  with  moonlight,  which  did 
not  enter  through  the  window,  but  was  the  aggregate 
of  all  the  moonshine  that  is  scattered  around  the  earth 


A   SELECT  PARTY.  83 

on  a  summer  night  while  no  eyes  are  awake  to  enjoj 
its  beauty.  Airy  spirits  had  gathered  it  up,  wherevel 
they  found  it  gleaming  on  the  broad  bosom  of  a  lake, 
or  silvering  the  meanders  of  a  stream,  or  glimmering 
among  the  wind-stirred  boughs  of  a  wood,  and  had 
garnered  it  in  this  one  spacious  hall.  Along  the  walls, 
illuminated  by  the  mild  intensity  of  the  moonshine, 
stood  a  multitude  of  ideal  statues,  the  original  concep 
tions  of  the  great  works  of  ancient  or  modern  art, 
which  the  sculptors  did  but  imperfectly  succeed  in  put 
ting  into  marble ;  for  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the 
pure  idea  of  an  immortal  creation  ceases  to  exist ;  it  is 
only  necessary  to  know  where  they  are  deposited  in 
order  to  obtain  possession  of  them.  In  the  alcoves  of 
another  vast  apartment  was  arranged  a  splendid  li 
brary,  the  volumes  of  which  were  inestimable,  because 
they  consisted  not  of  actual  performances,  but  of  the 
works  which  the  authors  only  planned,  without  ever 
finding  the  happy  season  to  achieve  them.  To  take 
familiar  instances,  here  were  the  untold  tales  of  Chau 
cer's  Canterbury  Pilgrims;  the  unwritten  cantos  of 
the  Fairy  Queen  ;  the  conclusion  of  Coleridge's  Chris- 
tabel ;  and  the  whole  of  Dryden's  projected  epic  on  the 
subject  of  King  Arthur.  The  shelves  were  crowded ; 
for  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  affirm  that  every 
author  has  imagined  and  shaped  out  in  his  thought 
more  and  far  better  works  than  those  which  actually 
proceeded  from  his  pen.  And  here,  likewise,  were  the 
unrealized  conceptions  of  youthful  poets  who  died  of 
the  very  strength  of  their  own  genius  before  the  world 
had  caught  one  inspired  murmur  from  their  lips. 

When  the  peculiarities  of  the  library  and  statue 
gallery  were  explained  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  he  ap 
peared  infinitely  perplexed,  and  exclaimed,  with  more 


84  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

energy  than  usual,  that  he  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing  within  his  memory,  and,  moreover,  did  not  at  all 
understand  how  it  could  be. 

"  But  my  brain,  I  think,"  said  the  good  old  gentle 
man,  "  is  getting  not  so  clear  as  it  used  to  be.  You 
young  folks,  I  suppose,  can  see  your  way  through  these 
strange  matters.  For  my  part,  I  give  it  up." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  muttered  the  Old  Harry.  "  It  is 
enough  to  puzzle  the  —  Ahem !  " 

Making  as  little  reply  as  possible  to  these  observa 
tions,  the  Man  of  Fancy  preceded  the  company  to 
another  noble  saloon,  the  pillars  of  which  were  solid 
golden  sunbeams  taken  out  of  the  sky  in  the  first  hour 
in  the  morning.  Thus,  as  they  retained  all  their  liv 
ing  lustre,  the  room  was  filled  with  the  most  cheerful 
radiance  imaginable,  yet  not  too  dazzling  to  be  borne 
with  comfort  and  delight.  The  windows  were  beauti 
fully  adorned  with  curtains  made  of  the  many-colored 
clouds  of  sunrise,  all  imbued  with  virgin  light,  and 
hanging  in  magnificent  festoons  from  the  ceiling  to  the 
floor.  Moreover,  there  were  fragments  of  rainbows 
scattered  through  the  room  ;  so  that  the  guests,  aston 
ished  at  one  another,  reciprocally  saw  their  heads 
made  glorious  by  the  seven  primary  hues  ;  or,  if  they 
chose,  —  as  who  would  not  ?  —  they  could  grasp  a 
rainbow  in  the  air  and  convert  it  to  their  own  apparel 
and  adornment.  But  the  morning  light  and  scattered 
rainbows  were  only  a  type  and  symbol  of  the  real  won 
ders  of  the  apartment.  By  an  influence  akin  to  magic, 
yet  perfectly  natural,  whatever  means  and  opportuni 
ties  of  joy  are  neglected  in  the  lower  world  had  been 
carefully  gathered  up  and  deposited  in  the  saloon  of 
morning  sunshine.  As  may  well  be  conceived,  there 
.fore,  there  was  material  enough  to  supply,  not  merely 


A    SELECT  PARTY.  85 

a  joyous  evening,  but  also  a  happy  lifetime,  to  more 
than  as  many  people  as  that  spacious  apartment  could 
contain.  The  company  seemed  to  renew  their  youth  ; 
while  that  pattern  and  proverbial  standard  of  inno 
cence,  the  Child  Unborn,  frolicked  to  and  fro  among 
them,  communicating  his  own  unwrinkled  gayety  to  aU 
who  had  the  good  fortune  to  witness  his  gambols. 

"  My  honored  friends,"  said  the  Man  of  Fancy,  after 
they  had  enjoyed  themselves  a  while,  "  I  am  now  to 
request  your  presence  in  the  banqueting  hall,  where  a 
slight  collation  is  awaiting  you." 

"  Ah,  well  said  !  "  ejaculated  a  cadaverous  figure, 
who  had  been  invited  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he 
was  pretty  constantly  in  the  habit  of  dining  with  Duke 
Humphrey.  "  I  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  a 
castle  in  the  air  were  provided  with  a  kitchen." 

It  was  curious,  in  truth,  to  see  how  instantaneously 
the  guests  were  diverted  from  the  high  moral  enjoy 
ments  which  they  had  been  tasting  with  so  much  ap 
parent  zest  by  a  suggestion  of  the  more  solid  as  well 
as  liquid  delights  of  the  festive  board.  They  thronged 
eagerly  in  the  rear  of  the  host,  who  now  ushered  them 
into  a  lofty  and  extensive  hall,  from  end  to  end  of 
which  was  arranged  a  table,  glittering  all  over  with  in 
numerable  dishes  and  drinking  vessels  of  gold.  It  is 
an  uncertain  point  whether  these  rich  articles  of  plate 
were  made  for  the  occasion  out  of  molten  sunbeams, 
or  recovered  from  the  wrecks  of  Spanish  galleons  that 
had  lain  for  ages  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The  upper 
end  of  the  table  was  overshadowed  by  a  canopy,  be 
neath  which  was  placed  a  chair  of  elaborate  magnifi 
eence,  which  the  host  himself  declined  to  occupy,  and 
besought  his  guests  to  assign  it  to  the  worthiest  among 
them.  As  a  suitable  homage  to  his  incalculable  an- 


86  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

tiquity  and  eminent  distinction,  the  post  of  honor  wag 
at  first  tendered  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant.  He,  how 
ever,  eschewed  it,  and  requested  the  favor  of  a  bowl  of 
gruel  at  a  side  table,  where  he  could  refresh  himself 
with  a  quiet  nap.  There  was  some  little  hesitation  as 
to  the  next  candidate,  until  Posterity  took  the  Master 
Genius  of  our  country  by  the  hand  and  led  him  to  the 
chair  of  state  beneath  the  princely  canopy.  When 
once  they  beheld  him  in  his  true  place,  the  company 
acknowledged  the  justice  of  the  selection  by  a  long 
thunder  roll  of  vehement  applause. 

Then  was  served  up  a  banquet,  combining,  if  not  all 
the  delicacies  of  the  season,  yet  all  the  rarities  which 
careful  purveyors  had  met  with  in  the  flesh,  fish,  and 
vegetable  markets  of  the  land  of  Nowhere.  The  bill 
of  fare  being  unfortunately  lost,  we  can  only  mention 
a  pho3nix,  roasted  in  its  own  flames,  cold  potted  birds 
of  paradise,  ice-creams  from  the  Milky  Way,  and  whip 
syllabubs  and  flummery  from  the  Paradise  of  Fools, 
whereof  there  was  a  very  grea^t  consumption.  As  for 
drinkables,  the  temperance  people  contented  them 
selves  with  water  as  usual ;  but  it  was  the  water  of  the 
Fountain  of  Youth ;  the  ladies  sipped  Nepenthe  ;  the 
lovelorn,  the  careworn,  and  the  sorrow-stricken  were 
supplied  with  brimming  goblets  of  Lethe  ;  and  it  was 
shrewdly  conjectured  that  a  certain  golden  vase,  from 
which  only  the  more  distinguished  guests  were  invited 
to  partake,  contained  nectar  that  had  been  mellowing 
ever  since  the  days  of  classical  mythology.  The  cloth 
being  removed,  the  company,  as  usual,  grew  eloquent 
over  their  liquor,  and  delivered  themselves  of  a  suc 
cession  of  brilliant  speeches,  —  the  task  of  reporting 
which  we  resign  to  the  more  adequate  ability  of  Coun 
sellor  Gill,  whose  indispensable  cooperation  the  Man 
of  Fancy  had  taken  the  precaution  to  secure. 


A   SELECT  PARTY.  87 

When  the  festivity  of  the  banquet  was  at  its  most 
Ithereal  point,  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather  was  observed 
to  steal  from  the  table  and  thrust  his  head  between 
the  purple  and  golden  curtains  of  one  of  the  windows. 

"  My  fellow-guests,"  he  remarked  aloud,  after  care 
fully  noting  the  signs  of  the  night,  "  I  advise  such  of 
you  as  live  at  a  distance  to  be  going  as  soon  as  possi 
ble  ;  for  a  thunder  storm  is  certainly  at  hand." 

"  Mercy  on  me !  "  cried  Mother  Carey,  who  had  left 
her  brood  of  chickens  and  come  hither  in  gossamer 
drapery,  with  pink  silk  stockings.  "  How  shall  I  ever 
get  home?" 

All  now  was  confusion  and  hasty  departure,  with 
but  little  superfluous  leave-taking.  The  Oldest  Inhab 
itant,  however,  true  to  the  rule  of  those  long-past  days 
in  which  his  courtesy  had  been  studied,  paused  on  the 
threshold  of  the  meteor-lighted  hall  to  express  his  vast 
satisfaction  at  the  entertainment. 

"  Never,  within  my  memory,"  observed  the  gracious 
old  gentleman,  "  has  it  been  my  good  fortune  to  spend 
a  pleasanter  evening  or  in  more  select  society." 

The  wind  here  took  his  breath  away,  whirled  his 
three-cornered  hat  into  infinite  space,  and  drowned 
what  further  compliments  it  had  been  his  purpose  to 
bestow.  Many  of  the  company  had  bespoken  will-o'- 
the-wisps  to  convoy  them  home ;  and  the  host,  in  his 
general  beneficence,  had  engaged  the  Man  in  the 
Moon,  with  an  immense  horn  lantern,  to  be  the  guide 
of  such  desolate  spinsters  as  could  do  no  better  for 
themselves.  But  a  blast  of  the  rising  tempest  blew 
cut  all  their  lights  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  How, 
in  the  darkness  that  ensued,  the  guests  contrived  to 
get  back  to  earth,  or  whether  the  greater  part  of  them 
Contrived  to  get  back  at  all,  or  are  still  wandering 


88  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

among  clouds,  mists,  and  puffs  of  tempestuous  wind, 
bruised  by  the  beams  and  rafters  of  the  overthrown 
castle  in  the  air,  and  deluded  by  all  sorts  of  unreali 
ties,  are  points  that  concern  themselves  mud?,  more 
than  the  writer  or  the  public.  People  should  tkuik  of 
these  matters  before  they  thrust  themselves  on  A  oleas- 
ure  party  into  the  realm  of  Nowhere. 


YOUNG  GOODMAN   BROWN. 

YOUNG  Goodman  Brown  came  forth  at  sunset  into 
the  street  at  Salem  village ;  but  put  his  head  back, 
after  crossing  the  threshold,  to  exchange  a  parting 
kiss  with  his  young  wife.  And  Faith,  as  the  wife  was 
aptly  named,  thrust  her  own  pretty  head  into  the 
street,  letting  the  wind  play  with  the  pink  ribbons  of 
her  cap  while  she  called  to  Goodman  Brown. 

"Dearest  heart/'  whispered  she,  softly  and  rather 
sadly,  when  her  lips  were  close  to  his  ear,  "prithee  put 
off  your  journey  until  sunrise  and  sleep  in  your  own 
bed  to-night.  A  lone  woman  is  troubled  with  such 
dreams  and  such  thoughts  that  she 's  afeard  of  herself 
sometimes.  Pray  tarry  with  me  this  night,  dear  hus 
band,  of  all  nights  in  the  year." 

"  My  love  and  my  Faith,"  replied  young  Goodman 
Brown,  "  of  all  nights  in  the  year,  this  one  night  must 
I  tarry  away  from  thee.  My  journey,  as  thou  callest 
it,  forth  and  back  again,  must  needs  be  done  'twixt 
now  and  sunrise.  What,  my  sweet,  pretty  wife,  dost 
thou  doubt  me  already,  and  we  but  three  months  mar 
ried?" 

"Then  God  bless  you!"  said  Faith,  with  the  pink 
ribbons ;  "  and  may  you  find  all  well  when  you  come 
back." 

"  Amen ! "  cried  Goodman  Brown.  "  Say  thy 
prayers,  dear  Faith,  and  go  to  bed  at  dusk,  and  no 
harm  will  come  to  thee." 

So  they  parted;    and  the  young  man  pursued  his 


90  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

way  until,  being  about  to  turn  the  corner  by  the  meet, 
ing-house,  he  looked  back  and  saw  the  head  of  Faith 
still  peeping  after  him  with  a  melancholy  air,  in  spite 
of  her  pink  ribbons. 

"Poor  little  Faith!"  thought  he,  for  his  heart 
smote  him.  "  What  a  wretch  am  I  to  leave  her  on 
such  an  errand !  She  talks  of  dreams,  too.  Methought 
as  she  spoke  there  was  trouble  in  her  face,  as  if  a 
dream  had  warned  her  what  work  is  to  be  done  to 
night.  But  no,  no ;  't  would  kill  her  to  think  it. 
Well,  she 's  a  blessed  angel  on  earth ;  and  after  this 
one  night  I  '11  cling  to  her  skirts  and  follow  her  to 
heaven." 

With  this  excellent  resolve  for  the  future,  Good 
man  Brown  felt  himself  justified  in  making  more  haste 
on  his  present  evil  purpose.  He  had  taken  a  dreary 
road,  darkened  by  all  the  gloomiest  trees  of  the  forest, 
which  barely  stood  aside  to  let  the  narrow  path  creep 
through,  and  closed  immediately  behind.  It  was  all 
as  lonely  as  could  be ;  and  there  is  this  peculiarity  in 
such  a  solitude,  that  the  traveller  knows  not  who  may 
be  concealed  by  the  innumerable  trunks  and  the  thick 
boughs  overhead ;  so  that  with  lonely  footsteps  he  may 
yet  be  passing  through  an  unseen  multitude. 

"There  may  be  a  devilish  Indian  behind  every 
tree,"  said  Goodman  Brown  to  himself;  and  he 
glanced  fearfully  behind  him  as  he  added,  "  What  if 
the  devil  himself  should  be  at  my  very  elbow  1 " 

His  head  being  turned  back,  he  passed  a  crook  of 
the  road,  and,  looking  forward  again,  beheld  the  figure 
of  a  man,  in  grave  and  decent  attire,  seated  at  the  foot 
of  an  old  tree.  He  arose  at  Goodman  Brown's  ap 
proach  and  walked  onward  side  by  side  with  him. 

"  You  are  late,  Goodman  Brown,"  said  he.     "  Tha 


YOUNG   GOODMAN  BROWN.  91 

clock  of  the  Old  South  was  striking  as  I  came  through 
Boston,  and  that  is  full  fifteen  minutes  agone." 

"  Faith  kept  me  back  a  while,"  replied  the  young 
man,  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  caused  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  his  companion,  though  not  wholly  unex 
pected. 

It  was  now  deep  dusk  in  the  forest,  and  deepest  in 
that  part  of  it  where  these  two  were  journeying.  As 
nearly  as  could  be  discerned,  the  second  traveller  was 
about  fifty  years  old,  apparently  in  the  same  rank  of 
life  as  Goodman  Brown,  and  bearing  a  considerable 
resemblance  to  him,  though  perhaps  more  in  expres 
sion  than  features.  Still  they  might  have  been  taken 
for  father  and  son.  And  yet,  though  the  elder  per 
son  was  as  simply  clad  as  the  younger,  and  as  simple 
in  manner  too,  he  had  an  indescribable  air  of  one  who 
knew  the  world,  and  who  would  not  have  felt  abashed 
at  the  governor's  dinner  table  or  in  King  William's 
court,  were  it  possible  that  his  affairs  should  call  him 
thither.  But  the  only  thing  about  him  that  could  be 
fixed  upon  as  remarkable  was  his  staff,  which  bore  the 
likeness  of  a  great  black  snake,  so  curiously  wrought 
that  it  might  almost  be  seen  to  twist  and  wriggle  itself 
like  a  living  serpent.  This,  of  course,  must  have  been 
an  ocular  deception,  assisted  by  the  uncertain  light. 

"  Come,  Goodman  Brown,"  cried  his  fellow-travel 
ler,  "  this  is  a  dull  pace  for  the  beginning  of  a  jour 
ney.  Take  my  staff,  if  you  are  so  soon  weary." 

"  Friend,"  said  the  other,  exchanging  his  slow  pace 
for  a  full  stop,  "  having  kept  covenant  by  meeting  thee 
here,  it  is  my  purpose  now  to  return  whence  I  came. 
I  have  scruples  touching  the  matter  thou  wot'st  of." 

"  Sayest  thou  so  ?  "  replied  he  of  the  serpent,  smiling 
apart.  "Let  us  walk  on,  nevertheless,  reasoning  as 


92  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

we  go ;  and  if  I  convince  thee  not  thou  shalt  turn 
back.  We  are  but  a  little  way  in  the  forest  yet." 

"  Too  far !  too  far ! "  exclaimed  the  goodman,  un 
consciously  resuming  his  walk.  "My  father  never 
went  into  the  woods  on  such  an  errand,  nor  his  father 
before  him.  We  have  been  a  race  of  honest  men  and 
good  Christians  since  the  days  of  the  martyrs ;  and 
shall  I  be  the  first  of  the  name  of  Brown  that  ever 
took  this  path  and  kept "  — 

"  Such  company,  thou  wouldst  say,"  observed  the 
elder  person,  interpreting  his  pause.  "  Well  said, 
Goodman  Brown!  I  have  been  as  well  acquainted 
with  your  family  as  with  ever  a  one  among  the  Puri 
tans  ;  and  that 's  no  trifle  to  say.  I  helped  your 
grandfather,  the  constable,  when  he  lashed  the  Quaker 
woman  so  smartly  through  the  streets  of  Salem ;  and 
it  was  I  that  brought  your  father  a  pitch-pine  knot, 
kindled  at  my  own  hearth,  to  set  fire  to  an  Indian  vil 
lage,  in  King  Philip's  war.  They  were  my  good 
friends,  both  ;  and  many  a  pleasant  walk  have  we  had 
along  this  path,  and  returned  merrily  after  midnight. 
I  would  fain  be  friends  with  you  for  their  sake." 

"  If  it  be  as  thou  sayest,"  replied  Goodman  Brown, 
"  I  marvel  they  never  spoke  of  these  matters  ;  or,  ver 
ily,  I  marvel  not,  seeing  that  the  least  rumor  of  the 
sort  would  have  driven  them  from  New  England.  We 
are  a  people  of  prayer,  and  good  works  to  boot,  and 
abide  no  such  wickedness." 

"  Wickedness  or  not,"  said  the  traveller  with  the 
twisted  staff,  "  I  have  a  very  general  acquaintance 
here  in  New  England.  The  deacons  of  many  a  church 
have  drunk  the  communion  wine  with  me  ;  the  select 
men  of  divers  towns  make  me  their  chairman  ;  and  a 
majority  of  the  Great  and  General  Court  are  firm  sup 


YOUNG    GOODMAN  BROWN.  93 

porters  of  my  interest.     The  governor  and  I,  too  — 
But  these  are  state  secrets." 

"  Can  this  be  so  ?  "  cried  Goodman  Brown,  with  a 
stare  of  amazement  at  his  undisturbed  companion. 
"  Howbeit,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  governor  and 
council ;  they  have  their  own  ways,  and  are  no  rule  for 
a  simple  husbandman  like  me.  But,  were  I  to  go  on 
with  thee,  how  should  I  meet  the  eye  of  that  good  old 
man,  our  minister,  at  Salem  village  ?  Oh,  his  voice 
would  make  me  tremble  both  Sabbath  day  and  lecture 
day." 

Thus  far  the  elder  traveller  had  listened  with  due 
gravity ;  but  now  burst  into  a  fit  of  irrepressible  mirth, 
shaking  himself  so  violently  that  his  snake-like  staff 
actually  seemed  to  wriggle  in  sympathy. 

"Ha !  ha  !  ha !  "  shouted  he  again  and  again ;  then 
composing  himself,  "  Well,  go  on,  Goodman  Brown, 
go  on ;  but,  prithee,  don't  kill  me  with  laughing." 

"  Well,  then,  to  end  the  matter  at  once,"  said  Good 
man  Brown,  considerably  nettled,  "  there  is  my  wife, 
Faith.  It  would  break  her  dear  little  heart ;  and  I  'd 
Bather  break  my  own." 

"  Nay,  if  that  be  the  case,"  answered  the  other, 
"  e'en  go  thy  ways,  Goodman  Brown.  I  would  not  for 
twenty  old  women  like  the  one  hobbling  before  us  that 
Faith  should  come  to  any  harm." 

As  he  spoke  he  pointed  his  staff  at  a  female  figure 
on  the  path,  in  whom  Goodman  Brown  recognized  a 
very  pious  and  exemplary  dame,  who  had  taught  him 
his  catechism  in  youth,  and  was  still  his  moral  and 
spiritual  adviser,  jointly  with  the  minister  and  Deacon 
Grookin. 

"  A  marvel,  truly,  that  Goody  Cloyse  should  be  so 
iar  in  the  wilderness  at  nightfall,"  said  he.  "But 


94  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

with  your  leave,  friend,  I  shall  take  a  cut  through  the 
woods  until  we  have  left  this  Christian  woman  behind. 
Being  a  stranger  to  you,  she  might  ask  whom  I  was 
consorting  with  and  whither  I  was  going." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  his  fellow-traveller.  "  Betake  you 
to  the  woods,  and  let  me  keep  the  path." 

Accordingly  the  young  man  turned  aside,  but  took 
care  to  watch  his  companion,  who  advanced  softly 
along  the  road  until  he  had  come  within  a  staff's 
length  of  the  old  dame.  She,  meanwhile,  was  making 
the  best  of  her  way,  with  singular  speed  for  so  aged 
a  woman,  and  mumbling  some  indistinct  words  —  a 
prayer,  doubtless — as  she  went.  The  traveller  put 
forth  his  staff  and  touched  her  withered  neck  with 
what  seemed  the  serpent's  tail. 

"  The  devil !  "  screamed  the  pious  old  lady. 

"  Then  Goody  Cloyse  knows  her  old  friend  ?"  ob 
served  the  traveller,  confronting  her  and  leaning  on 
his  writhing  stick. 

"Ah,  forsooth,  and  is  it  your  worship  indeed?'* 
cried  the  good  dame.  "Yea,  truly  is  it,  and  in  the 
very  image  of  my  old  gossip,  Goodman  Brown,  the 
grandfather  of  the  silly  fellow  that  now  is.  But  — 
would  your  worship  believe  it  ?  —  my  broomstick 
hath  strangely  disappeared,  stolen,  as  I  suspect,  by 
that  unhanged  witch,  Goody  Cory,  and  that,  too,  when 
I  was  all  anointed  with  the  juice  of  smallage,  and 
cinquefoil,  and  wolf's  bane  "  — 

"  Mingled  with  fine  wheat  and  the  fat  of  a  new-born 
babe,"  said  the  shape  of  old  Goodman  Brown. 

"  Ah,  your  worship  knows  the  recipe,"  cried  the  old 
lady,  cackling  aloud.  "  So,  as  I  was  saying,  being  all 
ready  for  the  meeting,  and  no  horse  to  ride  on,  I  made 
tip  my  mind  to  foot  it ;  for  they  tell  me  there  is  a  nice 


YOUNG   GOODMAN  BROWN.  95 

young  man  to  be  taken  into  communion  to-night.  But 
now  your  good  worship  will  lend  me  your  arm,  and 
we  shall  be  there  in  a  twinkling. 

"That  can  hardly  be,"  answered  her  friendo  "I 
may  not  spare  you  my  arm,  Goody  Cloyse ;  but  here 
is  my  staff,  if  you  will." 

So  saying,  he  threw  it  down  at  her  feet,  where,  per 
haps,  it  assumed  life,  being  one  of  the  rods  which  its 
owner  had  formerly  lent  to  the  Egyptian  magi.  Of 
this  fact,  however,  Goodman  Brown  could  not  take 
cognizance.  He  had  cast  up  his  eyes  in  astonishment, 
and,  looking  down  again,  beheld  neither  Goody  Cloyse 
nor  the  serpentine  staff,  but  his  fellow-traveller  alone, 
who  waited  for  him  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened. 

"  That  old  woman  taught  me  my  catechism,"  said 
the  young  man ;  and  there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in 
this  simple  comment. 

They  continued  to  walk  onward,  while  the  elder 
traveller  exhorted  his  companion  to  make  good  speed 
and  persevere  in  the  path,  discoursing  so  aptly  that 
his  arguments  seemed  rather  to  spring  up  in  the  bosom 
of  his  auditor  than  to  be  suggested  by  himself.  As 
they  went,  he  plucked  a  branch  of  maple  to  serve  for 
a  walking  stick,  and  began  to  strip  it  of  the  twigs 
and  little  boughs,  which  were  wet  with  evening  dew. 
The  moment  his  fingers  touched  them  they  became 
strangely  withered  and  dried  up  as  with  a  week's 
sunshine.  Thus  the  pair  proceeded,  at  a  good  free 
pace,  until  suddenly,  in  a  gloomy  hollow  of  the  road, 
Goodman  Brown  sat  himself  down  on  the  stump  of  a 
tree  and  refused  to  go  any  farther. 

"Friend,"  said  he,  stubbornly,  "my  mind  is  made 
up.  Not  another  step  will  I  budge  on  this  errand 


96  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

What  if  a  wretched  old  woman  do  choose  to  go  to  the 
devil  when  I  thought  she  was  going  to  heaven :  is  that 
any  reason  why  I  should  quit  my  dear  Faith  and  go 
after  her?" 

"  You  will  think  better  of  this  by  and  by,"  said  his 
acquaintance,  composedly.  "  Sit  here  and  rest  your 
self  a  while;  and  when  you  feel  like  moving  again, 
there  is  my  staff  to  help  you  along." 

Without  more  words,  he  threw  his  companion  the 
maple  stick,  and  was  as  speedily  out  of  sight  as  if  he 
had  vanished  into  the  deepening  gloom.  The  young 
man  sat  a  few  moments  by  the  roadside,  applauding 
himself  greatly,  and  thinking  with  how  clear  a  con 
science  he  should  meet  the  minister  in  his  morning 
walk,  nor  shrink  from  the  eye  of  good  old  Deacon 
Gookin.  And  what  calm  sleep  would  be  his  that  very 
night,  which  was  to  have  been  spent  so  wickedly,  but 
so  purely  and  sweetly  now,  in  the  arms  of  Faith! 
Amidst  these  pleasant  and  praiseworthy  meditations, 
Goodman  Brown  heard  the  tramp  of  horses  along 
the  road,  and  deemed  it  advisable  to  conceal  himself 
within  the  verge  of  the  forest,  conscious  of  the  guilty 
purpose  that  had  brought  him  thither,  though  now  so 
happily  turned  from  it. 

On  came  the  hoof  tramps  and  the  voices  of  the  rid 
ers,  two  grave  old  voices,  conversing  soberly  as  they 
drew  near.  These  mingled  sounds  appeared  to  pass 
along  the  road,  within  a  few  yards  of  the  young  man's 
hiding-place ;  but,  owing  doubtless  to  the  depth  of  the 
gloom  at  that  particular  spot,  neither  the  travellers 
nor  their  steeds  were  visible.  Though  their  figures 
brushed  the  small  boughs  by  the  wayside,  it  could  not 
be  seen  that  they  intercepted,  even  for  a  moment,  tho 
faint  gleam  from  the  strip  of  bright  sky  athwart 


YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN.  97 

which  they  must  have  passed.  Goodman  Brown  alter 
nately  crouched  and  stood  on  tiptoe,  pulling  aside  the 
branches  and  thrusting  forth  his  head  as  far  as  he 
durst  without  discerning  so  much  as  a  shadow.  It 
vexed  him  the  more,  because  he  could  have  sworn, 
were  such  a  thing  possible,  that  he  recognized  the 
voices  of  the  minister  and  Deacon  Gookin,  jogging 
along  quietly,  as  they  were  wont  to  do,  when  bound  to 
some  ordination  or  ecclesiastical  council.  While  yet 
within  hearing,  one  of  the  riders  stopped  to  pluck  a 
switch. 

"  Of  the  two,  reverend  sir,"  said  the  voice  like  the 
deacon's,  "I  had  rather  miss  an  ordination  dinner 
than  to-night's  meeting.  They  tell  me  that  some  of 
our  community  are  to  be  here  from  Falmouth  and  be 
yond,  and  others  from  Connecticut  and  Rhode  Island, 
besides  several  of  the  Indian  powwows,  who,  after 
their  fashion,  know  almost  as  much  deviltry  as  the 
best  of  us.  Moreover,  there  is  a  goodly  young  woman 
to  be  taken  into  communion." 

"  Mighty  well,  Deacon  Gookin ! "  replied  the  solemn 
old  tones  of  the  minister.  "  Spur  up,  or  we  shall  be 
late.  Nothing  can  be  done,  you  know,  until  I  get  on 
the  ground." 

The  hoofs  clattered  again ;  and  the  voices,  talking 
so  strangely  in  the  empty  air,  passed  on  through  the 
forest,  where  no  church  had  ever  been  gathered  or  sol 
itary  Christian  prayed.  Whither,  then,  could  these 
*ioly  men  be  journeying  so  deep  into  the  heathen  wil 
derness  ?  Young  Goodman  Brown  caught  hold  of  a 
tree  for  support,  being  ready  to  sink  down  on  the 
ground,  faint  and  overburdened  with  the  heavy  sick 
ness  of  his  heart.  He  looked  up  to  the  sky,  doubt 
ing  whether  there  really  was  a  heaven  above  him.  Yet 

VOL.  II.  7 


98  MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

there  was  the  blue  arch,  and  the  stars  brightening 
in  it. 

"  With  heaven  above  and  Faith  below,  I  will  yet 
stand  firm  against  the  devil !  "  cried  Goodman  Brown. 

While  he  still  gazed  upward  into  the  deep  arch  of 
the  firmament  and  had  lifted  his  hands  to  pray,  a 
cloud,  though  no  wind  was  stirring,  hurried  across  the 
zenith  and  hid  the  brightening  stars.  The  blue  sky 
was  still  visible,  except  directly  overhead,  where  this 
black  mass  of  cloud  was  sweeping  swiftly  northward. 
Aloft  in  the  air,  as  if  from  the  depths  of  the  cloud, 
came  a  confused  and  doubtful  sound  of  voices.  Once 
the  listener  fancied  that  he  could  distinguish  the  ac 
cents  of  towns-people  of  his  own,  men  and  women, 
both  pious  and  ungodly,  many  of  whom  he  had  met 
at  the  communion  table,  and  had  seen  others  rioting 
at  the  tavern.  The  next  moment,  so  indistinct  were 
the  sounds,  he  doubted  whether  he  had  heard  aught 
but  the  murmur  of  the  old  forest,  whispering  without 
a  wind.  Then  came  a  stronger  swell  of  those  famil 
iar  tones,  heard  daily  in  the  sunshine  at  Salem  village, 
but  never  until  now  from  a  cloud  of  night.  There 
was  one  voice,  of  a  young  woman,  uttering  lamenta 
tions,  yet  with  an  uncertain  sorrow,  and  entreating  for 
some  favor,  which,  perhaps,  it  would  grieve  her  to  ob 
tain  ;  and  all  the  unseen  multitude,  both  saints  and 
sinners,  seemed  to  encourage  her  onward. 

"  Faith  I  "  shouted  Goodman  Brown,  in  a  voice  of 
agony  and  desperation ;  and  the  echoes  of  the  forest 
mocked  him,  crying,  "  Faith  !  Faith  !  "  as  if  bewil 
dered  wretches  were  seeking  her  all  through  the  wil 
derness. 

The  cry  of  grief,  rage,  and  terror  was  yet  piercing 
the  night,  when  the  unhappy  husband  held  his  breath 


YOUNG   GOODMAN  BROWN.  99 

for  a  response.  There  was  a  scream,  drowned  imme 
diately  in  a  louder  murmur  of  voices,  fading  into  far- 
off  laughter,  as  the  dark  cloud  swept  away,  leaving  the 
clear  and  silent  sky  above  Goodman  Brown.  But 
something  fluttered  lightly  down  through  the  air  and 
caught  on  the  branch  of  a  tree.'  The  young  man 
seized  it,  and  beheld  a  pink  ribbon. 

"  My  Faith  is  gone !  "  cried  he,  after  one  stupefied 
moment.  "  There  is  no  good  on  earth ;  and  sin  is  but 
a  name.  Come,  devil ;  for  to  thee  is  this  world  given." 

And,  maddened  with  despair,  so  that  he  laughed 
loud  and  long,  did  Goodman  Brown  grasp  his  staff 
and  set  forth  again,  at  such  a  rate  that  he  seemed  to 
ily  along  the  forest  path  rather  than  to  walk  or  run. 
The  road  grew  wilder  and  drearier  and  more  faintly 
traced,  and  vanished  at  length,  leaving  him  in  the  heart 
of  the  dark  wilderness,  still  rushing  onward  with  the 
instinct  that  guides  mortal  man  to  evil.  The  whole 
forest  was  peopled  with  frightful  sounds  —  the  creak 
ing  of  the  trees,  the  howling  of  wild  beasts,  and  the 
yell  of  Indians  ;  while  sometimes  the  wind  tolled  like 
a  distant  church  bell,  and  sometimes  gave  a  broad  roar 
around  the  traveller,  as  if  all  Nature  were  laughing 
him  to  scorn.  But  he  was  himself  the  chief  horror  of 
the  scene,  and  shrank  not  from  its  other  horrors. 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !  "  roared  Goodman  Brown  when  the 
wind  laughed  at  him.  "  Let  us  hear  which  will  laugh 
loudest.  Think  not  to  frighten  me  with  your  deviltry. 
Come  witch,  come  wizard,  come  Indian  powwow,  come 
devil  himself,  and  here  comes  Goodman  Brown.  You 
may  as  well  fear  him  as  he  fear  you." 

In  truth,  all  through  the  haunted  forest  there  could 
be  nothing  more  frightful  than  the  figure  of  Goodman 
Brown,  On  he  flew  among  the  black  pines,  brandish 


100  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ing  his  staff  with  frenzied  gestures,  now  giving  vent  to 
an  inspiration  of  horrid  blasphemy,  and  now  shouting 
forth  such  laughter  as  set  all  the  echoes  of  the  forest 
laughing  like  demons  around  him.  The  fiend  in  his 
'  own  shape  is  less  hideous  than  when  he  rages  in  the 
breast  of  man.  Thus  sped  the  demoniac  on  his  course, 
until,  quivering  among  the  trees,  he  saw  a  red  light 
before  him,  as  when  the  felled  trunks  and  branches  of 
a  clearing  have  been  set  on  fire,  and  throw  up  their 
lurid  blaze  against  the  sky,  at  the  hour  of  midnight. 
He  paused,  in  a  lull  of  the  tempest  that  had  driven  him 
onward,  and  heard  the  swell  of  what  seemed  a  hymn, 
rolling  solemnly  from  a  distance  with  the  weight  of 
many  voices.  He  knew  the  tune ;  it  was  a  familiar 
one  in  the  choir  of  the  village  meeting-house.  The 
verse  died  heavily  away,  and  was  lengthened  by  a  cho 
rus,  not  of  human  voices,  but  of  all  the  sounds  of  the 
benighted  wilderness  pealing  in  awful  harmony  to 
gether.  Goodman  Brown  cried  out,  and  his  cry  was 
lost  to  his  own  ear  by  its  unison  with  the  cry  of  the 
desert. 

In  the  interval  of  silence  he  stole  forward  until  the 
light  glared  full  upon  his  eyes.  At  one  extremity  of 
an  open  space,  hemmed  in  by  the  dark  wall  of  the 
forest,  arose  a  rock,  bearing  some  rude,  natural  resem 
blance  either  to  an  altar  or  a  pulpit,  and  surrounded 
by  four  blazing  pines,  their  tops  aflame,  their  stems 
untouched,  like  candles  at  an  evening  meeting.  The 
mass  of  foliage  that  had  overgrown  the  summit  of  the 
rock  was  all  on  fire,  blazing  high  into  the  night  and 
fitfully  illuminating  the  whole  field.  Each  pendent 
twig  and  leafy  festoon  was  in  a  blaze.  As  the  red 
light  arose  and  fell,  a  numerous  congregation  alter 
nately  shone  forth,  then  disappeared  in  shadow,  and 


YOUNG   GOODMAN -BROWN,:  101. 

again  grew,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  darkness,  peopling 
the  heart  of  the  solitary  woods  at  once. 

"A  grave  and  dark-clad  company,"    quoth  Good-  " 
man  Brown. 

In  truth  they  were  such.  Among  them,  quivering 
to  and  fro  between  gloom  and  splendor,  appeared  faces 
that  would  be  seen  next  day  at  the  council  board  of 
the  province,  and  others  which,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath, 
looked  devoutly  heavenward,  and  benignantly  over  the 
crowded  pews,  from  the  holiest  pulpits  in  the  land. 
Some  affirm  that  the  lady  of  the  governor  was  there. 
At  least  there  were  high  dames  well  known  to  her,  and 
wives  of  honored  husbands,  and  widows,  a  great  multi 
tude,  and  ancient  maidens,  all  of  excellent  repute,  and 
fair  young  girls,  who  trembled  lest  their  mothers  should 
espy  them.  Either  the  sudden  gleams  of  light  flashing 
over  the  obscure  field  bedazzled  Goodman  Brown,  or 
he  recognized  a  score  of  the  church  members  of  Salem 
village  famous  for  their  especial  sanctity.  Good  old 
Deacon  Gookin  had  arrived,  and  waited  at  the  skirts  of 
that  venerable  saint,  his  revered  pastor.  But,  irrever 
ently  consorting  with  these  grave,  reputable,  and  pious 
people,  these  elders  of  the  church,  these  chaste  dames 
and  dewy  virgins,  there  were  men  of  dissolute  lives 
and  women  of  spotted  fame,  wretches  given  over  to 
all  mean  and  filthy  vice,  and  suspected  even  of  horrid 
crimes.  It  was  strange  to  see  that  the  good  shrank* 
not  from  the  wicked,  nor  were  the  sinners  abashed  by 
the  saints.  Scattered  also  among  their  pale-faced  ene 
mies  were  the  Indian  priests,  or  powwows,  who  had 
often  scared  their  native  forest  with  more  hideous  in 
cantations  than  any  known  to  English  witchcraft. 

"  But  where  is  Faith  ?  "  thought  Goodman  Brown  \ 
and,  as  hope  came  into  his  heart,  he  trembled. 


MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

Another  verse  of  the  hymn  arose,  a  slow  and  mourn, 
^ful  strain,  such  as  the  pious  love,  but  joined  to  words 
which  expressed  all  that  our  nature  can  conceive  of  sin, 
and  darkly  hinted  at  far  more.  Unfathomable  to  mere 
mortals  is  the  lore  of  fiends.  Verse  after  verse  was 
sung ;  and  still  the  chorus  of  the  desert  swelled  be 
tween  like  the  deepest  tone  of  a  mighty  organ  ;  and 
with  the  final  peal  of  that  dreadful  anthem  there  came 
a  sound,  as  if  the  roaring  wind,  the  rushing  streams, 
the  howling  beasts,  and  every  other  voice  of  the  un- 
concerted  wilderness  were  mingling  and  according  with 
the  voice  of  guilty  man  in  homage  to  the  prince  of  all. 
The  four  blazing  pines  threw  up  a  loftier  flame,  and 
obscurely  discovered  shapes  and  visages  of  horror  on 
the  smoke  wreaths  above  the  impious  assembly.  Afc 
the  same  moment  the  fire  on  the  rock  shot  redly  forth 
and  formed  a  glowing  arch  above  its  base,  where  now 
appeared  a  figure.  With  reverence  be  it  spoken,  the 
figure  bore  no  slight  similitude,  both  in  garb  and 
manner,  to  some  grave  divine  of  the  New  England 
churches. 

"  Bring  forth  the  converts  ! "  cried  a  voice  that 
echoed  through  the  field  and  rolled  into  the  forest. 

At  the  word,  Goodman  Brown  stepped  forth  from 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  and  approached  the  congrega 
tion,  with  whom  he  felt  a  loathful  brotherhood  by  the 
sympathy  of  all  that  was  wicked  in  his  heart.  He 
could  have  well-nigh  sworn  that  the  shape  of  his  own 
dead  father  beckoned  him  to  advance,  looking  down 
ward  from  a  smoke  wreath,  while  a  woman,  with  dim 
features  of  despair,  threw  out  her  hand  to  warn  him 
back.  Was  it  his  mother  ?  But  he  had  no  power  to 
retreat  one  step,  nor  to  resist,  even  in  thought,  when 
the  minister  and  good  old  Deacon  Gookin  seized  his 


YOUNG   GOODMAN  BROWN. 

arms  and  led  him  to  the  blazing  rock.  Thither  came 
also  the  slender  form  of  a  veiled  female,  led  between 
Goody  Cloyse,  that  pious  teacher  of  the  catechism, 
and  Martha  Carrier,  who  had  received  the  devil's 
promise  to  be  queen  of  hell.  A  rampant  hag  was 
she.  And  there  stood  the  proselytes  beneath  the  can 
opy  of  fire. 

"  Welcome,  my  children,"  said  the  dark  figure,  "  to 
the  communion  of  your  race.  Ye  have  found  thus 
young  your  nature  and  your  destiny.  My  children, 
look  behind  you  !  " 

They  turned ;  and  flashing  forth,  as  it  were,  in  a 
sheet  of  flame,  the  fiend  worshippers  were  seen ;  the 
smile  of  welcome  gleamed  darkly  on  every  visage. 

"  There,"  resumed  the  sable  form,  "  are  all  whom 
ye  have  reverenced  from  youth.  Ye  deemed  them 
holier  than  yourselves,  and  shrank  from  your  own  sin,, 
contrasting  it  with  their  lives  of  righteousness  and 
prayerful  aspirations  heavenward.  Yet  here  are  they 
all  in  my  worshipping  assembly.  This  night  it  shall 
be  granted  you  to  know  their  secret  deeds :  how  hoary- 
bearded  elders  of  the  church  have  whispered  wanton 
words  to  the  young  maids  of  their  households ;  how 
many  a  woman,  eager  for  widows'  weeds,  has  given 
her  husband  a  drink  at  bedtime  and  let  him  sleep  his 
last  sleep  in  her  bosom  ;  how  beardless  youths  have 
made  haste  to  inherit  their  fathers'  wealth ;  and  how 
fair  damsels  —  blush  not,  sweet  ones  —  have  dug  little 
graves  in  the  garden,  and  bidden  me,  the  sole  guest, 
to  an  infant's  funeral.  By  the  sympathy  of  your 
human  hearts  for  sin  ye  shall  scent  out  all  the  places 
• — whether  in  church,  bed-chamber,  street,  field,  or 
forest  —  where  crime  has  been  committed,  and  shall 
exult  to  behold  the  whole  earth  one  stain  of  guilt,  one 


104          MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

mighty  blood  spot.  Far  more  than  this.  It  shall  be 
yours  to  penetrate,  in  every  bosom,  the  deep  mystery 
of  sin,  the  fountain  of  all  wicked  arts,  and  which  in 
exhaustibly  supplies  more  evil  impulses  than  human 
power  —  than  my  power  at  its  utmost  —  can  make 
manifest  in  deeds.  And  now,  my  children,  look  upon 
each  other." 

They  did  so ;  and,  by  the  blaze  of  the  hell-kindled 
torches,  th6  wretched  man  beheld  his  Faith,  and  the 
wife  her  husband,  trembling  before  that  unhallowed 
altar. 

"  Lo,  there  ye  stand,  my  children,"  said  the  figure, 
in  a  deep  and  solemn  tone,  almost  sad  with  its  despair 
ing  awf ulness,  as  if  his  once  angelic  nature  could  yet 
mourn  for  our  miserable  race.  "  Depending  upon  one 
another's  hearts,  ye  had  still  hoped  that  virtue  were  not 
all  a  dream.  Now  are  ye  undeceived.  Evil  is  the 
nature  of  mankind.  Evil  must  be  your  only  happi 
ness.  Welcome  again,  my  children,  to  the  communion 
of  your  race." 

"  Welcome,"  repeated  the  fiend  worshippers,  in  one 
cry  of  despair  and  triumph. 

And  there  they  stood,  the  only  pair,  as  it  seemed, 
who  were  yet  hesitating  on  the  verge  of  wickedness  in 
this  dark  world.  A  basin  was  hollowed,  naturally,  in 
the  rock.  Did  it  contain  water,  reddened  by  the  lurid 
light  ?  or  was  it  blood  ?  or,  perchance,  a  liquid  flame  ? 
Herein  did  the  shape  of  evil  dip  his  hand  and  prepare 
to  lay  the  mark  of  baptism  upon  their  foreheads,  that 
they  might  be  partakers  of  the  mystery  of  sin,  more 
conscious  of  the  secret  guilt  of  others,  both  in  deed 
and  thought,  than  they  could  now  be  of  their  own. 
The  husband  cast  one  look  at  his  pale  wife,  and  Faith 
at  him.  What  polluted  wretches  would  the  next 


YOUNG   GOODMAN  BROWN.  105 

glance  show  them  to  each  other,  shuddering  alike  at 
what  they  disclosed  and  what  they  saw ! 

"  Faith !  Faith  !  "  cried  the  husband,  "  look  up  to 
heaven,  and  resist  the  wicked  one." 

Whether  Faith  obeyed  he  knew  not.  Hardly  had 
he  spoken  when  he  found  himself  amid  calm  night 
and  solitude,  listening  to  a  roar  of  the  wind  which 
died  heavily  away  through  the  forest.  He  staggered 
against  the  rock,  and  felt  it  chill  and  damp ;  while  a 
hanging  twig,  that  had  been  all  on  fire,  besprinkled 
his  cheek  with  the  coldest  dew. 

The  next  morning  young  Goodman  Brown  came 
slowly  into  the  street  of  Salem  village,  staring  around 
him  like  a  bewildered  man.  The  good  old  minister 
was  taking  a  walk  along  the  graveyard  to  get  an  ap 
petite  for  breakfast  and  meditate  his  sermon,  and  be 
stowed  a  blessing,  as  he  passed,  on  Goodman  Brown. 
He  shrank  from  the  venerable  saint  as  if  to  avoid  an 
anathema.  Old  Deacon  Gookin  was  at  domestic  wor 
ship,  and  the  holy  words  of  his  prayer  were  heard 
through  the  open  window.  "  What  God  doth  the  wiz^ 
ard  pray  to  ?  "  quoth  Goodman  Brown.  Goody  Cloyse, 
that  excellent  old  Christian,  stood  in  the  early  sun 
shine  at  her  own  lattice,  catechizing  a  little  girl  who 
had  brought  her  a  pint  of  morning's  milk.  Goodman 
Brown  snatched  away  the  child  as  from  the  grasp  of 
the  fiend  himself.  Turning  the  corner  by  the  meeting 
house,  he  spied  the  head  of  Faith,  with  the  pink  rib 
bons,  gazing  anxiously  forth,  and  bursting  into  such 
joy  at  sight  of  him  that  she  skipped  along  the  street 
and  almost  kissed  her  husband  before  the  whole  vil 
lage.  But  Goodman  Brown  looked  sternly  and  sadly 
into  her  face,  and  passed  on  without  a  greeting. 

Had  Goodman  Brown  fallen  asleep  in  the  forest 
and  only  dreamed  a  wild  dream  of  a  witch-meeting  ? 


106  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Be  it  so  if  you  will ;  but,  alas !  it  was  a  dream  of 
evil  omen  for  young  Goodman  Brown.  A  stern,  a  sad, 
a  darkly  meditative,  a  distrustful,  if  not  a  desperate 
man  did  he  become  from  the  night  of  that  fearful 
dream.  On  the  Sabbath  day,  when  the  congregation 
were  singing  a  holy  psalm,  he  could  not  listen  because 
an  anthem  of  sin  rushed  loudly  upon  his  ear  and 
drowned  all  the  blessed  strain.  When  the  minister 
spoke  from  the  pulpit  with  power  and  fervid  elo 
quence,  and,  with  his  hand  on  the  open  Bible,  of  the 
sacred  truths  of  our  religion,  and  of  saint-like  lives 
and  triumphant  deaths,  and  of  future  bliss  or  misery 
unutterable,  then  did  Goodman  Brown  turn  pale, 
dreading  lest  the  roof  should  thunder  down  upon  the 
gray  blasphemer  and  his  hearers.  Often,  awaking 
suddenly  at  midnight,  he  shrank  from  the  bosom  of 
Faith ;  and  at  morning  or  eventide,  when  the  family 
knelt  down  at  prayer,  he  scowled  and  muttered  to  him 
self,  and  gazed  sternly  at  his  wife,  and  turned  away. 
And  when  he  had  lived  long,  and  was  borne  to  his 
grave  a  hoary  corpse,  followed  by  Faith,  an  aged 
woman,  and  children  and  grandchildren,  a  goodly  pro 
cession,  besides  neighbors  not  a  few,  they  carved  no 
hopeful  verse  upon  his  tombstone,  for  his  dying  hour 
was  gloom. 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER. 

[FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OP  AUB£PINE.] 

WE  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any  translated 
specimens  of  the  productions  of  M.  de  1' Aubepine  —  a 
fact  the  less  to  be  wondered  at,  as  his  very  name  is 
unknown  to  many  of  his  own  countrymen  as  well  as 
to  the  student  of  foreign  literature.  As  a  writer,  he 
seems  to  occupy  an  unfortunate  position  between  the 
Transcendentalists  (who,  under  one  name  or  another, 
have  their  share  in  all  the  current  literature  of  the 
world)  and  the  great  body  of  pen-and-ink  men  who 
address  the  intellect  and  sympathies  of  the  multitude. 
If  not  too  refined,  at  all  events  too  remote,  too  shad 
owy,  and  unsubstantial  in  his  modes  of  development 
to  suit  the  taste  of  the  latter  class,  and  yet  too  popular 
to  satisfy  the  spiritual  or  metaphysical  requisitions  of 
the  former,  he  must  necessarily  find  himself  without 
an  audience,  except  here  and  there  an  individual  or 
possibly  an  isolated  clique.  His  writings,  to  do  them 
justice,  are  not  altogether  destitute  of  fancy  and  orig 
inality  ;  they  might  have  won  him  greater  reputation 
but  for  an  inveterate  love  of  allegory,  which  is  apt  to 
invest  his  plots  and  characters  with  the  aspect  of  scen 
ery  and  people  in  the  clouds,  and  to  steal  away  the 
human  warmth  out  of  his  conceptions.  His  fictions 
are  sometimes  historical,  sometimes  of  the  present  day, 
and  sometimes,  so  far  as  can  be  discovered,  have  little 
wr  no  reference  either  to  time  or  space.  In  any  case, 


108  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

he  generally  contents  himself  with  a  very  slight  em 
broidery  of  outward  manners,  —  the  faintest  possible 
counterfeit  of  real  life,  —  and  endeavors  to  create  an 
interest  by  some  less  obvious  peculiarity  of  the  sub 
ject.  Occasionally  a  breath  of  Nature,  a  raindrop  of 
pathos  and  tenderness,  or  a  gleam  of  humor,  will  find 
its  way  into  the  midst  of  his  fantastic  imagery,  and 
make  us  feel  as  if,  after  all,  we  were  yet  within  the 
limits  of  our  native  earth.  We  will  only  add  to  this 
very  cursory  notice  that  M.  de  1'Aubepine's  produc 
tions,  if  the  reader  chance  to  take  them  in  precisely 
the  proper  point  of  view,  may  amuse  a  leisure  hour  as 
well  as  those  of  a  brighter  man ;  if  otherwise,  they 
can  hardly  fail  to  look  excessively  like  nonsense. 

Our  author  is  voluminous  ;  he  continues  to  write 
and  publish  with  as  much  praiseworthy  and  indefati 
gable  prolixity  as  if  his  efforts  were  crowned  with  the 
brilliant  success  that  so  justly  attends  those  of  Eugene 
Sue.  His  first  appearance  was  by  a  collection  of  sto 
ries  in  a  long  series  of  volumes  entitled  "  Contes  deux 
fois  raconte*es."  The  titles  of  some  of  his  more  recent 
works  (we  quote  from  memory)  are  as  follows :  "  Le 
Voyage  Cdleste  a  Chemin  de  Fer,"  3  torn.,  1838 ;  "Le 
nouveau  Pere  Adam  et  la  nouvelle  M£re  Eve,"  2  torn., 
1839 ;  "  Roderic ;  ou  le  Serpent  a  1'estomac,"  2  torn., 
1840 ;  "  Le  Culte  du  Feu,"  a  folio  volume  of  ponder 
ous  research  into  the  religion  and  ritual  of  the  old 
Persian  Ghebers,  published  in  1841 ;  "  La  Soire*e  du 
Chateau  en  Espagne,"  1  torn.,  8vo,  1842  ;  and  "  L' Ar 
tiste  du  Beau;  ou  le  Papillon  Mecanique,"  5  torn., 
4to,  1843.  Our  somewhat  wearisome  perusal  of  this 
startling  catalogue  of  volumes  has  left  behind  it  a  cer 
tain  personal  affection  and  sympathy,  though  by  no 
means  admiration,  for  M.  de  l'Aube*pine;  and  we 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  109 

would  fain  do  the  little  in  our  power  towards  introduc 
ing  him  favorably  to  the  American  public.  The  ensu 
ing  tale  is  a  translation  of  his  "  Beatrice  ;  ou  la  Belle 
Empoisonneuse,"  recently  published  in  "La  Eevue 
Anti-Aristocratique."  This  journal,  edited  by  the 
Comte  de  Bearhaven,  has  for  some  years  past  led  the 
defence  of  liberal  principles  and  popular  rights  with  a 
faithfulness  and  ability  worthy  of  all  praise. 

A  young  man,  named  Giovanni  Guasconti,  came, 
very  long  ago,  from  the  more  southern  region  of  Italy, 
to  pursue  his  studies  at  the  University  of  Padua.  Gio 
vanni,  who  had  but  a  scanty  supply  of  gold  ducats  in 
his  pocket,  took  lodgings  in  a  high  and  gloomy  cham 
ber  of  an  old  edifice  which  looked  not  unworthy  to 
have  been  the  palace  of  a  Paduan  noble,  and  which, 
in  fact,  exhibited  over  its  entrance  the  armorial 
bearings  of  a  family  long  since  extinct.  The  young 
stranger,  who  was  not  unstudied  in  the  great  poem  of 
his  country,  recollected  that  one  of  the  ancestors  of 
this  family,  and  perhaps  an  occupant  of  this  very 
mansion,  had  been  pictured  by  Dante  as  a  partaker  of 
the  immortal  agonies  of  his  Inferno.  These  reminis 
cences  and  associations,  together  with  the  tendency  to 
heartbreak  natural  to  a  young  man  for  the  first  time 
out  of  his  native  sphere,  caused  Giovanni  to  sigh  heav 
ily  as  he  looked  around  the  desolate  and  ill-furnished 
apartment. 

"  Holy  Virgin,  signor !  "  cried  old  Dame  Lisabetta, 
who,  won  by  the  youth's  remarkable  beauty  of  person, 
was  kindly  endeavoring  to  give  the  chamber  a  habita 
ble  air,  "  what  a  sigh  was  that  to  come  out  of  a  young 
man's  heart !  Do  you  find  this  old  mansion  gloomy  ? 
For  the  love  of  Heaven,  then,  put  your  head  out  of 


110          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

the  window,  and  you  will  see  as  bright  sunshine  as  you 
have  left  in  Naples." 

Guasconti  mechanically  did  as  the  old  woman  ad 
vised,  but  could  not  quite  agree  with  her  that  the  Pad- 
uan  sunshine  was  as  cheerful  as  that  of  southern  Italy. 
Such  as  it  was,  however,  it  fell  upon  a  garden  beneath 
the  window  and  expended  its  fostering  influences  on  a 
variety  of  plants,  which  seemed  to  have  been  cultivated 
with  exceeding  care. 

"Does  this  garden  belong  to  the  house?"  asked 
Giovanni. 

"  Heaven  forbid,  signor,  unless  it  were  fruitful  of 
better  pot  herbs  than  any  that  grow  there  now,"  an 
swered  old  Lisabetta.  "  No  ;  that  garden  is  cultivated 
by  the  own  hands  of  Signor  Giacomo  Rappaccini,  the 
famous  doctor,  who,  I  warrant  him,  has  been  heard  of 
as  far  as  Naples.  It  is  said  that  he  distils  these  plants 
into  medicines  that  are  as  potent  as  a  charm.  Often 
times  you  may  see  the  signor  doctor  at  work,  and  per 
chance  the  signora,  his  daughter,  too,  gathering  the 
strange  flowers  that  grow  in  the  garden." 

The  old  woman  had  now  done  what  she  could  for 
the  aspect  of  the  chamber;  and,  commending  the 
young  man  to  the  protection  of  the  saints,  took  her 
departure. 

Giovanni  still  found  no  better  occupation  than  to 
look  down  into  the  garden  beneath  his  window.  From 
its  appearance,  he  judged  it  to  be  one  of  those  botanic 
gardens  which  were  of  earlier  date  in  Padua  than  else 
where  in  Italy  or  in  the  world.  Or,  not  improba 
bly,  it  might  once  have  been  the  pleasure-place  of  an 
opulent  family ;  for  there  was  the  ruin  of  a  marble 
fountain  in  the  centre,  sculptured  with  rare  art,  but  sc 
wofully  shattered  that  it  was  impossible  to  trafle  the 


RAPPACCINPS  DAUGHTER.  111 

original  design  from  the  chaos  of  remaining  frag 
ments.  The  water,  however,  continued  to  gush  and 
sparkle  into  the  sunbeams  as  cheerfully  as  ever.  A 
little  gurgling  sound  ascended  to  the  young  man's 
window,  and  made  him  feel  as  if  the  fountain  were  an 
immortal  spirit  that  sung  its  song  unceasingly  and 
without  heeding  the  vicissitudes  around  it,  while  one 
century  imbodied  it  in  marble  and  another  scattered 
the  perishable  garniture  on  the  soil.  All  about  the 
pool  into  which  the  water  subsided  grew  various 
plants,  that  seemed  to  require  a  plentiful  supply  of 
moisture  for  the  nourishment  of  gigantic  leaves,  and, 
in  some  instances,  flowers  gorgeously  magnificent. 
There  was  one  shrub  in  particular,  set  in  a  marble 
vase  in  the  midst  of  the  pool,  that  bore  a  profusion  of 
purple  blossoms,  each  of  which  had  the  lustre  and 
richness  of  a  gem;  and  the  whole  together  made  a 
show  so  resplendent  that  it  seemed  enough  to  illu 
minate  the  garden,  even  had  there  been  no  sunshine. 
Every  portion'  of  the  soil  was  peopled  with  plants  and 
herbs,  which,  if  less  beautiful,  still  bore  tokens  of  as 
siduous  care,  as  if  all  had  their  individual  virtues, 
known  to  the  scientific  mind  that  fostered  them. 
Some  were  placed  in  urns,  rich  with  old  carving,  and 
others  in  common  garden  pots ;  some  crept  serpent- 
like  along  the  ground  or  climbed  on  high,  using  what 
ever  means  of  ascent  was  offered  them.  One  plant 
had  wreathed  itself  round  a  statue  of  Vertumnus, 
which  was  thus  quite  veiled  and  shrouded  in  a  dra 
pery  of  hanging  foliage,  so  happily  arranged  that  it 
might  have  served  a  sculptor  for  a  study. 

While  Giovanni  stood  at  the  window  he  heard  a 
rustling  behind  a  screen  of  leaves,  and  became  aware 
that  a  person  was  at  work  in  the  garden.  His  figur« 


112  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

soon  emerged  into  view,  and  showed  itself  to  be  that 
of  no  common  laborer,  but  a  tall,  emaciated,  sallow, 
and  sickly-looking  man,  dressed  in  a  scholar's  garb  of 
black.  He  was  beyond  the  middle  term  of  life,  with 
gray  hair,  a  thin,  gray  beard,  and  a  face  singularly 
marked  with  intellect  and  cultivation,  but  which  could 
never,  even  in  his  more  youthful  days,  have  expressed 
much  warmth  of  heart. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  intentness  with  which  this 
scientific  gardener  examined  every  shrub  which  grew 
in  his  path  :  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  looking  into  their 
inmost  nature,  making  observations  in  regard  to  their 
creative  essence,  and  discovering  why  one  leaf  grew  in 
this  shape  and  another  in  that,  and  wherefore  such 
and  such  flowers  differed  among  themselves  in  hue 
and  perfume.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  this  deep  in 
telligence  on  his  part,  there  was  no  approach  to  inti 
macy  between  himself  and  these  vegetable  existences. 
On  the  contrary,  he  avoided  their  actual  touch  or  the 
direct  inhaling  of  their  odors  with  a  caution  that  im 
pressed  Giovanni  most  disagreeably ;  for  the  man's 
demeanor  was  that  of  one  walking  among  malignant 
influences,  such  as  savage  beasts,  or  deadly  snakes,  or 
evil  spirits,  which,  should  he  allow  them  one  moment 
of  license,  would  wreak  upon  him  some  terrible  fatal 
ity.  It  was  strangely  frightful  to  the  young  man's 
imagination  to  see  this  air  of  insecurity  in  a  person 
cultivating  a  garden,  that  most  simple  and  innocent  of 
human  toils,  and  which  had  been  alike  the  joy  and 
labor  of  the  unfallen  parents  of  the  race.  Was  this 
garden,  then,  the  Eden  of  the  present  world?  And 
this  man,  with  such  a  perception  of  harm  in  what  his 
own  hands  caused  to  grow,  —  was  he  the  Adam  ? 

The  distrustful  gardener,  while  plucking  away  the 


RAPPACCINrS  DAUGHTER.  113 

dead  leaves  or  pruning  the  too  luxuriant  growth  of  the 
shrubs,  defended  his  hands  with  a  pair  of  thick  gloves. 
Nor  were  these  his  only  armor.  When,  in  his  walk 
through  the  garden,  he  came  to  the  magnificent  plant 
that  hung  its  purple  gems  beside  the  marble  fountain, 
he  placed  a  kind  of  mask  over  his  mouth  and  nostrils, 
as  if  all  this  beauty  did  but  conceal  a  deadlier  malice ; 
but,  finding  his  task  still  too  dangerous,  he  drew  back, 
removed  the  mask,  and  called  loudly,  but  in  the  infirm 
voice  of  a  person  affected  with  inward  disease,  — 

"Beatrice!  Beatrice!" 

"  Here  am  I,  my  father.  What  would  you  ?  "  cried 
a  rich  and  youthful  voice  from  the  window  of  the  op 
posite  house  —  a  voice  as  rich  as  a  tropical  sunset,  and 
which  made  Giovanni,  though  he  knew  not  why,  think 
of  deep  hues  of  purple  or  crimson  and  of  perfumes 
heavily  delectable.  "  Are  you  in  the  garden?  " 

"Yes,  Beatrice,"  answered  the  gardener,  "and  I 
need  your  help." 

Soon  there  emerged  from  under  a  sculptured  portal 
the  figure  of  a  young  girl,  arrayed  with  as  much  rich 
ness  of  taste  as  the  most  splendid  of  the  flowers,  beau 
tiful  as  the  day,  and  with  a  bloom  so  deep  and  vivid 
that  one  shade  more  would  have  been  too  much.  She 
looked  redundant  with  life,  health,  and  energy ;  all  of 
which  attributes  were  bound  down  and  compressed,  as 
it  were,  and  girdled  tensely,  in  their  luxuriance,  by 
her  virgin  zone.  Yet  Giovanni's  fancy  must  have 
grown  morbid  while  he  looked  down  into  the  garden ; 
for  the  impression  which  the  fair  stranger  made  upon 
him  was  as  if  here  were  another  flower,  the  human 
sister  of  those  vegetable  ones,  as  beautiful  as  they, 
more  beautiful  than  the  richest  of  them,  but  still  to  be 
touched  only  with  a  glove,  nor  to  be  approached  with- 


114          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

out  a  mask.  As  Beatrice  came  down  the  garden  path, 
it  was  observable  that  she  handled  and  inhaled  the 
odor  of  several  of  the  plants  which  her  father  had 
most  sedulously  avoided. 

"  Here,  Beatrice,"  said  the  latter,  "  see  how  many 
needful  offices  require  to  be  done  to  our  chief  treas 
ure.  Yet,  shattered  as  I  am,  my  life  might  pay  the 
penalty  of  approaching  it  so  closely  as  circumstances 
demand.  Henceforth,  I  fear,  this  plant  must  be  con 
signed  to  your  sole  charge." 

"  And  gladly  will  I  undertake  it,"  cried  again  the 
rich  tones  of  the  young  lady,  as  she  bent  towards  th$ 
magnificent  plant  and  opened  her  arms  as  if  to  em 
brace  it.  "  Yes,  my  sister,  my  splendor,  it  shall  be 
Beatrice's  task  to  nurse  and  serve  thee ;  and  thou  shalt 
reward  her  with  thy  kisses  and  perfumed  breath,  which 
to  her  is  as  the  breath  of  life." 

Then,  with  all  the  tenderness  in  her  manner  that 
was  so  strikingly  expressed  in  her  words,  she  busied 
herself  with  such  attentions  as  the  plant  seemed  to  re 
quire  ;  and  Giovanni,  at  his  lofty  window,  rubbed  his 
eyes  and  almost  doubted  whether  it  were  a  girl  tend 
ing  her  favorite  flower,  or  one  sister  performing  the 
duties  of  affection  to  another.  The  scene  soon  ter 
minated.  Whether  Dr.  Rappaccini  had  finished  his 
labors  in  the  garden,  or  that  his  watchful  eye  had 
caught  the  stranger's  face,  he  now  took  his  daughter's 
arm  and  retired.  Night  was  already  closing  in ;  op 
pressive  exhalations  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  plants 
and  steal  upward  past  the  open  window ;  and  Gio 
vanni,  closing  the  lattice,  went  to  his  couch  and 
dreamed  of  a  rich  flower  and  beautiful  girl.  Flower 
and  maiden  were  different,  and  yet  the  same,  and 
fraught  with  some  strange  peril  in  either  shape. 


RAPPACCINTS  DAUGHTER.  115 

But  there  is  an  influence  in  the  light  of  morning 
that  tends  to  rectify  whatever  errors  of  fancy,  or  even 
of  judgment,  we  may  have  incurred  during  the  sun's 
decline,  or  among  the  shadows  of  the  night,  or  in  the 
less  wholesome  glow  of  moonshine.  Giovanni's  first 
movement,  on  starting  from  sleep,  was  to  throw  open 
the  window  and  gaze  down  into  the  garden  which  his 
dreams  had  made  so  fertile  of  mysteries.  He  was  sur 
prised  and  a  little  ashamed  to  find  how  real  and  mat 
ter-of-fact  an  affair  it  proved  to  be,  in  the  first  rays  of 
the  sun  which  gilded  the  dew-drops  that  hung  upon 
leaf  and  blossom,  and,  while  giving  a  brighter  beauty 
to  each  rare  flower,  brought  everything  within  the 
limits  of  ordinary  experience.  The  young  man  re 
joiced  that,  in  the  heart  of  the  barren  city,  he  had  the 
privilege  of  overlooking  this  spot  of  lovely  and  luxu 
riant  vegetation.  It  would  serve,  he  said  to  himself, 
as  a  symbolic  language  to  keep  him  in  communion 
with  Nature.  Neither  the  sickly  and  thoughtworn 
Dr.  Giacomo  Rappaccini,  it  is  true,  nor  his  brilliant 
daughter,  were  now  visible  ;  so  that  Giovanni  could 
not  determine  how  much  of  the  singularity  which  he 
attributed  to  both  was  due  to  their  own  qualities  and 
how  much  to  his  wonder-working  fancy ;  but  he  was 
inclined  to  take  a  most  rational  view  of  the  whole 
matter. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  he  paid  his  respects  to 
Signer  Pietro  Baglioni,  professor  of  medicine  in  the 
university,  a  physician  of  eminent  repute,  to  whom 
Giovanni  had  brought  a  letter  of  introduction.  The 
professor  was  an  elderly  personage,  apparently  of 
genial  nature,  and  habits  that  might  almost  be  called 
jovial.  He  kept  the  young  man  to  dinner,  and  made 
kimself  very  agreeable  by  the  freedom  and  liveliness  of 


116          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

his  conversation,  especially  when  warmed  by  a  flask  01 
two  of  Tuscan  wine.  Giovanni,  conceiving  that  men 
of  science,  inhabitants  of  the  same  city,  must  needs  be 
on  familiar  terms  with  one  another,  took  an  opportu 
nity  to  mention  the  name  of  Dr.  Kappaccini.  But  the 
professor  did  not  respond  with  so  much  cordiality  as 
he  had  anticipated. 

"  111  would  it  become  a  teacher  of  the  divine  art  of 
medicine,"  said  Professor  Pietro  Baglioni,  in  answer 
to  a  question  of  Giovanni,  "  to  withhold  due  and  well- 
considered  praise  of  a  physician  so  eminently  skilled 
as  Rappaccini  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  should  an 
swer  it  but  scantily  to  my  conscience  were  I  to  permit 
a  worthy  youth  like  yourself,  Signor  Giovanni,  the  son 
of  an  ancient  friend,  to  imbibe  erroneous  ideas  respect 
ing  a  man  who  might  hereafter  chance  to  hold  your 
life  and  death  in  his  hands.  The  truth  is,  our  wor 
shipful  Dr.  Rappaccini  has  as  much  science  as  any 
member  of  the  faculty  —  with  perhaps  one  single  ex 
ception  —  in  Padua,  or  all  Italy ;  but  there  are  certain 
grave  objections  to  his  professional  character." 

"  And  what  are  they  ?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

"  Has  my  friend  Giovanni  any  disease  of  body  or 
heart,  that  he  is  so  inquisitive  about  physicians  ?  "  said 
the  professor,  with  a  smile.  "  But  as  for  Rappaccini, 
it  is  said  of  him  —  and  I,  who  know  the  man  well, 
can  answer  for  its  truth  —  that  he  cares  infinitely  more 
for  science  than  for  mankind.  His  patients  are  inter 
esting  to  him  only  as  subjects  for  some  new  experi 
ment.  He  would  sacrifice  human  life,  his  own  among 
the  rest,  or  whatever  else  was  dearest  to  him,  for  the 
sake  of  adding  so  much  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed  to 
the  great  heap  of  his  accumulated  knowledge." 

"  Methinks  he  is  an  awful  man  indeed,"  remarked 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  lit 

Guasconti,  mentally  recalling  the  cold  and  purely  in 
tellectual  aspect  of  Eappaccini.  "  And  yet,  worship 
ful  professor,  is  it  not  a  noble  spirit?  Are  there 
many  men  capable  of  so  spiritual  a  love  of  science  ?  " 

"  God  forbid,"  answered  the  professor,  somewhat 
testily ;  "  at  least,  unless  they  take  sounder  views  of 
the  healing  art  than  those  adopted  by  Rappaccini.  It 
is  his  theory  that  all  medicinal  virtues  are  comprised 
within  those  substances  which  we  term  vegetable  poi 
sons.  These  he  cultivates  with  his  own  hands,  and  is 
said  even  to  have  produced  new  varieties  of  poison, 
more  horribly  deleterious  than  Nature,  without  the 
assistance  of  this  learned  person,  would  ever  have 
plagued  the  world  withal.  That  the  signor  doctor  does 
less  mischief  than  might  be  expected  with  such  danger 
ous  substances  is  undeniable.  Now  and  then,  it  must 
be  owned,  he  has  effected,  or  seemed  to  effect,  a  mar 
vellous  cure ;  but,  to  tell  you  my  private  mind,  Signor 
Giovanni,  he  should  receive  little  credit  for  such  in 
stances  of  success,  —  they  being  probably  the  work  of 
chance,  —  but  should  be  held  strictly  accountable  for 
his  failures,  which  may  justly  be  considered  his  own 
work." 

The  youth  might  have  taken  Baglioni's  opinions 
with  many  grains  of  allowance  had  he  known  that 
there  was  a  professional  warfare  of  long  continuance 
between  him  and  Dr.  Rappaccini,  in  which  the  latter 
was  generally  thought  to  have  gained  the  advantage. 
If  the  reader  be  inclined  to  judge  for  himself,  we  re 
fer  him  to  certain  black-letter  tracts  on  both  sides, 
preserved  in  the  medical  department  of  the  University 
of  Padua. 

a  I  know  not,  most  learned  professor,"  returned 
Giovanni,  after  musing  on  what  had  been  said  of  Rap 


118          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

paccini's  exclusive  zeal  for  science,  —  "I  know  not  how 
dearly  this  physician  may  love  his  art ;  but  surely 
there  is  one  object  more  dear  to  him.  He  has  a 
daughter." 

"  Aha  !  "  cried  the  professor,  with  a  laugh.  "  So 
now  our  friend  Giovanni's  secret  is  out.  You  have 
heard  of  this  daughter,  whom  all  the  young  men  in 
Padua  are  wild  about,  though  not  half  a  dozen  have 
ever  had  the  good  hap  to  see  her  face.  I  know  little 
of  the  Signora  Beatrice  save  that  Rappaccini  is  said 
to  have  instructed  her  deeply  in  his  science,  and  that, 
young  and  beautiful  as  fame  reports  her,  she  is  already 
qualified  to  fill  a  professor's  chair.  Perchance  her 
father  destines  her  for  mine !  Other  absurd  rumors 
there  be,  not  worth  talking  about  or  listening  to.  So 
now,  Signer  Giovanni,  drink  off  your  glass  of  lach- 
ryma." 

Guasconti  returned  to  his  lodgings  somewhat  heated 
with  the  wine  he  had  quaffed,  and  which  caused  his 
brain  to  swim  with  strange  fantasies  in  reference  to 
Dr.  Rappaccini  and  the  beautiful  Beatrice.  On  his 
way,  happening  to  pass  by  a  florist's,  he  bought  a  fresh 
bouquet  of  flowers. 

Ascending  to  his  chamber,  he  seated  himself  near 
the  window,  but  within  the  shadow  thrown  by  the 
depth  of  the  wall,  so  that  he  could  look  down  into  the 
garden  with  little  risk  of  being  discovered.  All  be 
neath  his  eye  was  a  solitude.  The  strange  plants  were 
basking  in  the  sunshine,  and  now  and  then  nodding 
gently  to  one  another,  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of 
sympathy  and  kindred.  In  the  midst,  by  the  shat 
tered  fountain,  grew  the  magnificent  shrub,  with  its 
purple  gems  clustering  all  over  it ;  they  glowed  in  the 
air,  and  gleamed  back  again  out  of  the  depths  of  the 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  119 

pool,  which  thus  seemed  to  overflow  with  colored  radi 
ance  from  the  rich  reflection  that  was  steeped  in  it. 
At  first,  as  we  have  said,  the  garden  was  a  solitude. 
Soon,  however,  —  as  Giovanni  had  half  hoped,  half 
feared,  would  be  the  case,  —  a  figure  appeared  beneath 
the  antique  sculptured  portal,  and  came  down  between 
the  rows  of  plants,  inhaling  their  various  perfumes  as 
if  she  were  one  of  those  beings  of  old  classic  fable  that 
lived  upon  sweet  odors.  On  again  beholding  Beatrice, 
the  young  man  was  even  startled  to  perceive  how 
much  her  beauty  exceeded  his  recollection  of  it;  so 
brilliant,  so  vivid,  was  its  character,  that  she  glowed 
amid  the  sunlight,  and,  as  Giovanni  whispered  to  him- 
self,  positively  illuminated  the  more  shadowy  intervals 
of  the  garden  path.  Her  face  being  now  more  re 
vealed  than  on  the  former  occasion,  he  was  struck  by 
its  expression  of  simplicity  and  sweetness,  —  qualities 
that  had  not  entered  into  his  idea  of  her  character,  and 
which  made  him  ask  anew  what  manner  of  mortal  she 
might  be.  Nor  did  he  fail  again  to  observe,  or  imag 
ine,  an  analogy  between  the  beautiful  girl  and  the  gor 
geous  shrub  that  hung  its  gemlike  flowers  over  the 
fountain,  —  a  resemblance  which  Beatrice  seemed  to 
have  indulged  a  fantastic  humor  in  heightening,  both 
by  the  arrangement  of  her  dress  and  the  selection  of 
its  hues. 

Approaching  the  shrub,  she  threw  open  her  arms,  as 
with  a  passionate  ardor,  and  drew  its  branches  into  an 
intimate  embrace  —  so  intimate  that  her  features  were 
hidden  in  its  leafy  bosom  and  her  glistening  ringlets 
all  intermingled  with  the  flowers. 

"Give  me  thy  breath,  my  sister,"  exclaimed  Bea 
trice  ;  "  for  I  am  faint  with  common  air.  And  give 
me  this  flower  of  thine,  which  I  separate  with  gentlest 


120          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

fingers  from  the  stem  and  place  it  close  beside  my 
heart." 

With  these  words  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Rappao 
cini  plucked  one  of  the  richest  blossoms  of  the  shrub, 
and  was  about  to  fasten  it  in  her  bosom.  But  now, 
unless  Giovanni's  draughts  of  wine  had  bewildered  his 
senses,  a  singular  incident  occurred.  A  small  orange- 
colored  reptile,  of  the  lizard  or  chameleon  species, 
chanced  to  be  creeping  along  the  path,  just  at  the  feet 
of  Beatrice.  It  appeared  to  Giovanni,  —  but,  at  the 
distance  from  which  he  gazed,  he  could  scarcely  have 
seen  anything  so  minute,  —  it  appeared  to  him,  how 
ever,  that  a  drop  or  two  of  moisture  from  the  broken 
stem  of  the  flower  descended  upon  the  lizard's  head. 
For  an  instant  the  reptile  contorted  itself  violently, 
and  then  lay  motionless  in  the  sunshine.  Beatrice  ob 
served  this  remarkable  phenomenon,  and  crossed  her 
self,  sadly,  but  without  surprise;  nor  did  she  there 
fore  hesitate  to  arrange  the  fatal  flower  in  her  bosom. 
There  it  blushed,  and  almost  glimmered  with  the  daz 
zling  effect  of  a  precious  stone,  adding  to  her  dress  and 
aspect  the  one  appropriate  charm  which  nothing  else 
in  the  world  could  have  supplied.  But  Giovanni,  out 
of  the  shadow  of  his  window,  bent  forward  and  shrank 
back,  and  murmured  and  trembled. 

"  Am  I  awake  ?  Have  I  my  senses  ?  "  said  he  to 
himself.  "What  is  this  being?  Beautiful  shall  I 
call  her,  or  inexpressibly  terrible  ?  " 

Beatrice  now  strayed  carelessly  through  the  garden, 
approaching  closer  beneath  Giovanni's  window,  so  that 
he  was  compelled  to  thrust  his  head  quite  out  of  its 
concealment  in  order  to  gratify  the  intense  and  pain 
ful  curiosity  which  she  excited.  At  this  moment  there 
tame  a  beautiful  insect  over  the  garden  wall ;  it  had, 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  121 

perhaps,  wandered  through  the  city,  and  found  no 
flowers  or  verdure  among  those  antique  haunts  of  men 
until  the  heavy  perfumes  of  Dr.  Rappaccini's  shrubs 
had  lured  it  from  afar.  Without  alighting  on  the 
flowers,  this  winged  brightness  seemed  to  be  attracted 
by  Beatrice,  and  lingered  in  the  air  and  fluttered  about 
her  head.  Now,  here  it  could  not  be  but  that  Giovanni 
Guasconti's  eyes  deceived  him.  Be  that  as  it  might, 
he  fancied  that,  while  Beatrice  was  gazing  at  the  insect 
with  childish  delight,  it  grew  faint  and  fell  at  her  feet ; 
its  bright  wings  shivered  ;  it  was  dead — from  no  cause 
that  he  could  discern,  unless  it  were  the  atmosphere  of 
her  breath.  Again  Beatrice  crossed  herself  and  sighed 
heavily  as  she  bent  over  the  dead  insect. 

An  impulsive  movement  of  Giovanni  drew  her  eyes 
to  the  window.  There  she  beheld  the  beautiful  head 
of  the  young  man  —  rather  a  Grecian  than  an  Italian 
head,  with  fair,  regular  features,  and  a  glistening  of 
gold  among  his  ringlets  —  gazing  down  upon  her  like 
a  being  that  hovered  in  mid  air.  Scarcely  knowing 
what  he  did,  Giovanni  threw  down  the  bouquet  which 
he  had  hitherto  held  in  his  hand. 

"  Signora,"  said  he,  "  there  are  pure  and  healthful 
flowers.  Wear  them  for  the  sake  of  Giovanni  Guas- 
conti." 

"  Thanks,  signor,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  her  rich 
voice,  that  came  forth  as  it  were  like  a  gush  of  music, 
and  with  a  mirthful  expression  half  childish  and  half 
woman-like.  "  I  accept  your  gift,  and  would  fain 
recompense  it  with  this  precious  purple  flower  ;  but  if 
I  toss  it  into  the  air  it  will  not  reach  you.  So  Signor 
Guasconti  must  even  content  himself  with  my  thanks." 

She  lifted  the  bouquet  from  the  ground,  and  then, 
as  if  inwardly  ashamed  at  having  stepped  aside  from 


122          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD   MANSE. 

her  maidenly  reserve  to  respond  to  a  stranger's  greet* 
ing,  passed  swiftly  homeward  through  the  garden. 
But  few  as  the  moments  were,  it  seemed  to  Giovanni, 
when  she  was  on  the  point  of  vanishing  beneath  the 
sculptured  portal,  that  his  beautiful  bouquet  was  al 
ready  beginning  to  wither  in  her  grasp.  It  was  an 
idle  thought ;  there  could  be  no  possibility  of  distin 
guishing  a  faded  flower  from  a  fresh  one  at  so  great  a 
distance. 

For  many  days  after  this  incident  the  young  man 
avoided  the  window  that  looked  into  Dr.  Rappaccini's 
garden,  as  if  something  ugly  and  monstrous  would 
have  blasted  his  eyesight  had  he  been  betrayed  into  a 
glance.  He  felt  conscious  of  having  put  himself,  to 
a  certain  extent,  within  the  influence  of  an  unintelligi 
ble  power  by  the  communication  which  he  had  opened 
with  Beatrice.  The  wisest  course  would  have  been,  if 
his  heart  were  in  any  real  danger,  to  quit  his  lodgings 
and  Padua  itself  at  once  ;  the  next  wiser,  to  have  ac 
customed  himself,  as  far  as  possible,  to  the  familiar 
and  daylight  view  of  Beatrice  —  thus  bringing  her 
rigidly  and  systematically  within  the  limits  of  ordinary 
experience.  Least  of  all,  while  avoiding  her  sight, 
ought  Giovanni  to  have  remained  so  near  this  extraor 
dinary  being  that  the  proximity  and  possibility  even 
of  intercourse  should  give  a  kind  of  substance  and 
reality  to  the  wild  vagaries  which  his  imagination  ran 
riot  continually  in  producing.  Guasconti  had  not  a 
deep  heart  —  or,  at  all  events,  its  depths  were  not 
sounded  now ;  but  he  had  a  quick  fancy,  and  an  ardent 
southern  temperament,  which  rose  every  instant  to  a 
higher  fever  pitch.  Whether  or  no  Beatrice  possessed 
those  terrible  attributes,  that  fatal  breath,  the  affinity 
with  those  so  beautiful  and  deadly  flowers  which  were 


KAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  128 

indicated  by  what  Giovanni  had  witnessed,  she  had 
at  least  instilled  a  fierce  and  subtle  poison  into  his  sys 
tem.  It  was  not  love,  although  her  rich  beauty  was  a 
madness  to  him ;  nor  horror,  even  while  he  fancied  her 
spirit  to  be  imbued  with  the  same  baneful  essence  that 
seemed  to  pervade  her  physical  frame  ;  but  a  wild  off 
spring  of  both  love  and  horror  that  had  each  parent 
in  it,  and  burned  like  one  and  shivered  like  the  other. 
Giovanni  knew  not  what  to  dread ;  still  less  did  he 
know  what  to  hope  ;  yet  hope  and  dread  kept  a  con 
tinual  warfare  in  his  breast,  alternately  vanquishing 
one  another  and  starting  up  afresh  to  renew  the  con 
test.  Blessed  are  all  simple  emotions,  be  they  dark  or 
bright !  It  is  the  lurid  intermixture  of  the  two  that 
produces  the  illuminating  blaze  of  the  infernal  regions. 

Sometimes  he  endeavored  to  assuage  the  fever  of 
his  spirit  by  a  rapid  walk  through  the  streets  of  Padua 
or  beyond  its  gates :  his  footsteps  kept  time  with  the 
throbbings  of  his  brain,  so  that  the  walk  was  apt  to 
accelerate  itself  to  a  race.  One  day  he  found  him 
self  arrested ;  his  arm  was  seized  by  a  portly  person 
age,  who  had  turned  back  on  recognizing  the  young 
man  and  expended  much  breath  in  overtaking  him. 

"  Signor  Giovanni !  Stay,  my  young  friend ! "  cried 
he.  "  Have  you  forgotten  me  ?  That  might  well  be 
the  case  if  I  were  as  much  altered  as  yourself." 

It  was  Baglioni,  whom  Giovanni  had  avoided  ever 
since  their  first  meeting,  from  a  doubt  that  the  pro 
fessor's  sagacity  would  look  too  deeply  into  his  secrets. 
Endeavoring  to  recover  himself,  he  stared  forth  wildly 
from  his  inner  world  into  the  outer  one  and  spoke  like 
a  man  in  a  dream. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  Giovanni  Guasconti.  You  are  Pro1 
fessor  Pietro  Baglioni.  Now  let  me  pass  ! " 


124  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet,  Signor  Giovanni  Guasconti,'' 
said  the  professor,  smiling,  but  at  the  same  time  scru 
tinizing  the  youth  with  an  earnest  glance.  "  What ! 
did  I  grow  up  side  by  side  with  your  father?  and 
shall  his  son  pass  me  like  a  stranger  in  these  old 
streets  of  Padua  ?  Stand  still,  Signor  Giovanni  ;  for 
we  must  have  a  word  or  two  before  we  part." 

"  Speedily,  then,  most  worshipful  professor,  speed 
ily,"  said  Giovanni,  with  feverish  impatience.  "  Does 
not  your  worship  see  that  I  am  in  haste  ?  " 

Now,  while  he  was  speaking  there  came  a  man  in 
black  along  the  street,  stooping  and  moving  feebly  like 
a  person  in  inferior  health.  His  face  was  all  over 
spread  with  a  most  sickly  and  sallow  hue,  but  yet  so 
pervaded  with  an  expression  of  piercing  and  active  in 
tellect  that  an  observer  might  easily  have  overlooked 
the  merely  physical  attributes  and  have  seen  only  this 
wonderful  energy.  As  he  passed,  this  person  ex 
changed  a  cold  and  distant  salutation  with  Baglioni, 
but  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Giovanni  with  an  intentness 
that  seemed  to  bring  out  whatever  was  within  him 
worthy  of  notice.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  peculiar 
quietness  in  the  look,  as  if  taking  merely  a  specula 
tive,  not  a  human,  interest  in  the  young  man. 

"It  is  Dr.  Rappaccini!"  whispered  the  professor 
when  the  stranger  had  passed.  "  Has  he  ever  seen 
your  face  before  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know,"  answered  Giovanni,  starting  at 
the  name. 

"  He  has  seen  you!  he  must  have  seen  you  !  "  said 
Baglioni,  hastily.  "  For  some  purpose  or  other,  this 
man  of  science  is  making  a  study  of  you.  I  know 
that  look  of  his  !  It  is  the  same  that  coldly  illumi 
nates  his  face  as  he  bends  over  a  bird,  a  mouse,  or  a 


RAPPACCINI1  S  DAUGHTER.  125 

butterfly,  which,  in  pursuance  of  some  experiment,  he 
has  killed  by  the  perfume  of  a  flower  ;  a  look  as  deep 
as  Nature  itself,  but  without  Nature's  warmth  of  love. 
Signor  (riovanni,  I  will  stake  my  life  upon  it,  you  are 
the  subject  of  one  of  Rappaccini's  experiments !  " 

"Will  you  make  a  fool  of  me?"  cried  Giovanni, 
passionately.  "  That,  signer  professor,  were  an  un 
toward  experiment." 

"  Patience !  patience !  "  replied  the  imperturbable 
professor.  "  I  tell  thee,  my  poor  Giovanni,  that  Rap- 
paccini  has  a  scientific  interest  in  thee.  Thou  hast 
fallen  into  fearful  hands !  And  the  Signora  Beatrice, 
—  what  part  does  she  act  in  this  mystery  ?  " 

But  Guasconti,  finding  Baglioni's  pertinacity  intol 
erable,  here  broke  away,  and  was  gone  before  the  pro 
fessor  could  again  seize  his  arm.  He  looked  after  the 
young  man  intently  and  shook  his  head. 

"This  must  not  be,"  said  Baglioni  to  himself. 
"  The  youth  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  and  shall  not 
come  to  any  harm  from  which  the  arcana  of  medical 
science  can  preserve  him.  Besides,  it  is  too  insuffer 
able  an  impertinence  in  Rappaccini,  thus  to  snatch 
the  lad  out  of  my  own  hands,  as  I  may  say,  and  make 
use  of  him  for  his  infernal  experiments.  This  daugh 
ter  of  his !  It  shall  be  looked  to.  Perchance,  most 
learned  Rappaccini,  I  may  foil  you  where  you  little 
dream  of  it !  " 

Meanwhile  Giovanni  had  pursued  a  circuitous  route, 
and  at  length  found  himself  at  the  door  of  his  lodg 
ings.  As  he  crossed  the  threshold  he  was  met  by  old 
Lisabetta,  who  smirked  and  smiled,  and  was  evidently 
desirous  to  attract  his  attention ;  vainly,  however,  as 
the  ebullition  of  his  feelings  had  momentarily  subsided 
into  a  cold  and  dull  vacuity.  He  turned  his  eyes  full 


126          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

upon  the  withered  face  that  was  puckering  itself  into 
a  smile,  but  seemed  to  behold  it  not.  The  old  dame, 
therefore,  laid  her  grasp  upon  his  cloak. 

"Signor !  signor !  "  whispered  she,  still  with  a  smile 
over  the  whole  breadth  of  her  visage,  so  that  it  looked 
not  unlike  a  grotesque  carving  in  wood,  darkened  by 
centuries.  "  Listen,  signor !  There  is  a  private  en 
trance  into  the  garden !  " 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  exclaimed  Giovanni,  turning 
quickly  about,  as  if  an  inanimate  thing  should  start 
into  feverish  life.  "  A  private  entrance  into  Dr.  Rap- 
paccini's  garden  ?  " 

"  Hush !  hush !  not  so  loud !  "  whispered  Lisabetta, 
putting  her  hand  over  his  mouth.  "Yes;  into  the 
worshipful  doctor's  garden,  where  you  may  see  all  his 
fine  shrubbery.  Many  a  young  man  in  Padua  would 
give  gold  to  be  admitted  among  those  flowers." 

Giovanni  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  her  hand. 

"  Show  me  the  way,"  said  he. 

A  surmise,  probably  excited  by  his  conversation  with 
Baglioni,  crossed  his  mind,  that  this  interposition  of 
old  Lisabetta  might  perchance  be  connected  with  the 
intrigue,  whatever  were  its  nature,  in  which  the  pro 
fessor  seemed  to  suppose  that  Dr.  Rappaccini  was 
involving  him.  But  such  a  suspicion,  though  it  dis 
turbed  Giovanni,  was  inadequate  to  restrain  him.  The 
instant  that  he  was  aware  of  the  possibility  of  ap 
proaching  Beatrice,  it  seemed  an  absolute  necessity  of 
his  existence  to  do  so.  It  mattered  not  whether  she 
were  angel  or  demon ;  he  was  irrevocably  within  her 
sphere,  and  must  obey  the  law  that  whirled  him  on 
ward,  in  ever-lessening  circles,  towards  a  result  which 
he  did  not  attempt  to  foreshadow ;  and  yet,  strange  to 
say,  there  came  across  him  a  sudden  doubt  whether 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  12? 

fchis  intense  interest  on  his  part  were  not  delusory; 
whether  it  were  really  of  so  deep  and  positive  a  nature 
as  to  justify  him  in  now  thrusting  himself  into  an  in 
calculable  position ;  whether  it  were  not  merely  the 
fantasy  of  a  young  man's  brain,  only  slightly  or  not  at 
all  connected  with  his  heart. 

He  paused,  hesitated,  turned  half  about,  but  again 
went  on.  His  withered  guide  led  him  along  several 
obscure  passages,  and  finally  undid  a  door,  through 
which,  as  it  was  opened,  there  came  the  sight  and 
sound  of  rustling  leaves,  with  the  broken  sunshine 
glimmering  among  them.  Giovanni  stepped  forth, 
and,  forcing  himself  through  the  entanglement  of  a 
shrub  that  wreathed  its  tendrils  over  the  hidden  en 
trance,  stood  beneath  his  own  window  in  the  open  area 
of  Dr.  Rappaccini's  garden. 

How  often  is  it  the  case  that,  when  impossibilities 
have  come  to  pass  and  dreams  have  condensed  their 
misty  substance  into  tangible  realities,  we  find  our 
selves  calm,  and  even  coldly  self-possessed,  amid  cir 
cumstances  which  it  would  have  been  a  delirium  of 
joy  or  agony  to  anticipate !  Fate  delights  to  thwart 
us  thus.  Passion  will  choose  his  own  time  to  rush 
upon  the  scene,  and  lingers  sluggishly  behind  when  an 
appropriate  adjustment  of  events  would  seem  to  sum 
mon  his  appearance.  So  was  it  now  with  Giovanni. 
Day  after  day  his  pulses  had  throbbed  with  feverish 
blood  at  the  improbable  idea  of  an  interview  with  Be 
atrice,  and  of  standing  with  her,  face  to  face,  in  this 
very  garden,  basking  in  the  Oriental  sunshine  of  her 
beauty,  and  snatching  from  her  full  gaze  the  mystery 
which  he  deemed  the  riddle  of  his  own  existence.  But 
now  there  was  a  singular  and  untimely  equanimity 
within  his  breast.  He  threw  a  glance  around  the 


128          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

garden  to  discover  if  Beatrice  or  her  father  were  pres. 
ent,  and,  perceiving  that  he  was  alone,  began  a  critical 
observation  of  the  plants. 

The  aspect  of  one  and  all  of  them  dissatisfied  him ; 
their  gorgeousness  seemed  fierce,  passionate,  and  even 
unnatural.  There  was  hardly  an  individual  shrub 
which  a  wanderer,  straying  by  himself  through  a  for 
est,  would  not  have  been  startled  to  find  growing  wild, 
as  if  an  unearthly  face  had  glared  at  him  out  of  the 
thicket.  Several  also  would  have  shocked  a  delicate 
instinct  by  an  appearance  of  artificialness  indicating 
that  there  had  been  such  commixture,  and,  as  it  were, 
adultery,  of  various  vegetable  species,  that  the  produc 
tion  was  no  longer  of  God's  making,  but  the  mon 
strous  offspring  of  man's  depraved  fancy,  glowing  with 
only  an  evil  mockery  of  beauty.  They  were  probably 
the  result  of  experiment,  which  in  one  or  two  cases 
had  succeeded  in  mingling  plants  individually  lovely 
into  a  compound  possessing  the  questionable  and  omi 
nous  character  that  distinguished  the  whole  growth  of 
the  garden.  In  fine,  Giovanni  recognized  but  two  or 
three  plants  in  the  collection,  and  those  of  a  kind  that 
he  well  knew  to  be  poisonous.  While  busy  with  these 
contemplations  he  heard  the  rustling  of  a  silken  gar 
ment,  and,  turning,  beheld  Beatrice  emerging  from 
beneath  the  sculptured  portal. 

Giovanni  had  not  considered  with  himself  what 
should  be  his  deportment;  whether  he  should  apolo 
gize  for  his  intrusion  into  the  garden,  or  assume  that 
he  was  there  with  the  privity  at  least,  if  not  by  the  de 
sire,  of  Dr.  Rappaccini  or  his  daughter ;  but  Beatrice's 
manner  placed  him  at  his  ease,  though  leaving  him 
fctill  in  doubt  by  what  agency  he  had  gained  admit 
tance.  She  came  lightly  along  the  path  and  met  him 


RAPPACCINTS  DAUGHTER.  129 

near  the  broken  fountain.  There  was  surprise  in  her 
face,  but  brightened  by  a  simple  and  kind  expression 
of  pleasure. 

"You  are  a  connoisseur  in  flowers,  signer,"  said  Bea 
trice,  with  a  smile,  alluding  to  the  bouquet  which  he 
had  flung  her  from  the  window.  "It  is  no  marvel, 
therefore,  if  the  sight  of  my  father's  rare  collection  has 
tempted  you  to  take  a  nearer  view.  If  he  were  here, 
he  could  tell  you  many  strange  and  interesting  facts 
as  to  the  nature  and  habits  of  these  shrubs  ;  for  he 
has  spent  a  lifetime  in  such  studies,  and  this  garden 
is  his  world." 

"  And  yourself,  lady,"  observed  Giovanni,  "  if  fame 
says  true,  —  you  likewise  are  deeply  skilled  in  the  vir 
tues  indicated  by  these  rich  blossoms  and  these  spicy 
perfumes.  Would  you  deign  to  be  my  instructress,  I 
should  prove  an  apter  scholar  than  if  taught  by  Sig 
nor  Rappaccini  himself." 

"  Are  there  such  idle  rumors  ? "  asked  Beatrice, 
with  the  music  of  a  pleasant  laugh.  "  Do  people  say 
that  I  am  skilled  in  my  father's  science  of  plants  ? 
What  a  jest  is  there  !  No  ;  though  I  have  grown  up 
among  these  flowers,  I  know  no  more  of  them  than 
their  hues  and  perfume ;  and  sometimes  methinks  I 
.  would  fain  rid  myself  of  even  that  small  knowledge. 
There  are  many  flowers  here,  and  those  not  the  least 
brilliant,  that  shock  and  offend  me  when  they  meet  my 
eye.  But  pray,  signor,  do  not  believe  these  stories 
about  my  science.  Believe  nothing  of  me  save  what 
you  see  with  your  own  eyes." 

"  And  must  I  believe  all  that  I  have  seen  with  my 
own  eyes  ?  "  asked  Giovanni,  pointedly,  while  the  rec 
ollection  of  former  scenes  made  him  shrink.  "No, 

VOL.   II.  9 


130          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

signora;  you  demand  too  little  of  me.  Bid  me  be* 
lieve  nothing  save  what  comes  from  your  own  lips." 

It  would  appear  that  Beatrice  understood  him. 
There  came  a  deep  flush  to  her  cheek ;  but  she  looked 
full  into  Giovanni's  eyes,  and  responded  to  his  gaze  of 
uneasy  suspicion  with  a  queenlike  haughtiness. 

"  I  do  so  bid  you,  signor,"  she  replied.  "  Forget 
whatever  you  may  have  fancied  in  regard  to  me.  If 
true  to  the  outward  senses,  still  it  may  be  false  in  its 
essence ;  but  the  words  of  Beatrice  Rappaccini's  lips 
are  true  from  the  depths  of  the  heart  outward.  Those 
you  may  believe." 

A  fervor  glowed  in  her  whole  aspect  and  beamed 
upon  Giovanni's  consciousness  like  the  light  of  truth 
itself ;  but  while  she  spoke  there  was  a  fragrance  in 
the  atmosphere  around  her,  rich  and  delightful,  though 
evanescent,  yet  which  the  young  man,  from  an  indefin 
able  reluctance,  scarcely  dared  to  draw  into  his  lungs. 
It  might  be  the  odor  of  the  flowers.  Could  it  be  Bea 
trice's  breath  which  thus  embalmed  her  words  with  a 
strange  richness,  as  if  by  steeping  them  in  her  heart  ? 
A  faintness  passed  like  a  shadow  over  Giovanni  and 
flitted  away ;  he  seemed  to  gaze  through  the  beautiful 
girl's  eyes  into  her  transparent  soul,  and  felt  no  more 
doubt  or  fear. 

The  tinge  of  passion  that  had  colored  Beatrice's 
manner  vanished ;  she  became  gay,  and  appeared  to 
derive  a  pure  delight  from  her  communion  with  the 
youth  not  unlike  what  the  maiden  of  a  lonely  island 
might  have  felt  conversing  with  a  voyager  from  the 
civilized  world.  Evidently  her  experience  of  life  had 
been  confined  within  the  limits  of  that  garden.  She 
talked  now  about  matters  as  simple  as  the  daylight  or 
summer  clouds,  and  now  asked  questions  in  reference 


RAPPACCINPS  DAUGHTER.  131 

to  the  city,  or  Giovanni's  distant  home,  his  friends,  his 
mother,  and  his  sisters  —  questions  indicating  such  se- 
elusion,  and  such  lack  of  familiarity  with  modes  and 
forms,  that  Giovanni  responded  as  if  to  an  infant. 
Her  spirit  gushed  out  before  him  like  a  fresh  rill  that 
was  just  catching  its  first  glimpse  of  the  sunlight  and 
wondering  at  the  reflections  of  earth  and  sky  which 
were  flung  into  its  bosom.  There  came  thoughts,  too, 
from  a  deep  source,  and  fantasies  of  a  gemlike  brill 
iancy,  as  if  diamonds  and  rubies  sparkled  upward 
among  the  bubbles  of  the  fountain.  Ever  and  anon 
there  gleamed  across  the  young  man's  mind  a  sense  of 
wonder  that  he  should  be  walking  side  by  side  with 
the  being  who  had  so  wrought  upon  his  imagination, 
whom  he  had  idealized  in  such  hues  of  terror,  in  whom 
he  had  positively  witnessed  such  manifestations  of 
dreadful  attributes,  — that  he  should  be  conversing  with 
Beatrice  like  a  brother,  and  should  find  her  so  hu 
man  and  so  maidenlike.  But  such  reflections  were 
only  momentary  ;  the  effect  of  her  character  was  too 
real  not  to  make  itself  familiar  at  once. 

In  this  free  intercourse  they  had  strayed  thrqugh  the 
garden,  and  now,  after  many  turns  among  its  avenues, 
were  come  to  the  shattered  fountain,  beside  which  grew 
the  magnificent  shrub,  with  its  treasury  of  glowing 
blossoms.  A  fragrance  was  diffused  from  it  which 
Giovanni  recognized  as  identical  with  that  which  he 
had  attributed  to  Beatrice's  breath,  but  incomparably 
more  powerful.  As  her  eyes  fell  upon  it,  Giovanni 
beheld  her  press  her  hand  to  her  bosom  as  if  her  heart 
were  throbbing  suddenly  and  painfully. 

"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  murmured  she,  ad 
dressing  the  shrub,  "  I  had  forgotten  thee." 

"  I  remember,  signora,"  said  Giovanni,  "  that  you 


132  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

once  promised  to  reward  me  with  one  of  these  living 
gems  for  the  bouquet  which  I  had  the  happy  boldness 
to  fling  to  your  feet.  Permit  me  now  to  pluck  it  as  a 
memorial  of  this  interview." 

He  made  a  step  towards  the  shrub  with  extended 
hand ;  but  Beatrice  darted  forward,  vitering  a  shriek 
that  went  through  his  heart  like  a  dagger.  She  caught 
his  hand  and  drew  it  back  with  the  whole  force  of 
her  slender  figure.  Giovanni  felt  her  touch  thrilling 
through  his  fibres. 

"  Touch  it  not !  "  exclaimed  she,  in  a  voice  of  agony. 
"  Not  for  thy  life  !  It  is  fatal !  " 

Then,  hiding  her  face,  she  fled  from  him  and  van 
ished  beneath  the  sculptured  portal.  As  Giovanni 
followed  her  with  his  eyes,  he  beheld  the  emaciated 
figure  and  pale  intelligence  of  Dr.  Rappaccini,  who 
had  been  watching  the  scene,  he  knew  not  how  long, 
within  the  shadow  of  the  entrance. 

No  sooner  was  Guasconti  alone  in  his  chamber  than 
the  image  of  Beatrice  came  back  to  his  passionate 
musings,  invested  with  all  the  witchery  that  had  been 
gathering  around  it  ever  since  his  first  glimpse  of  her, 
and  now  likewise  imbued  with  a  tender  warmth  of 
girlish  womanhood.  She  was  human  ;  her  nature  was 
endowed  with  all  gentle  and  feminine  qualities ;  she  was 
worthiest  to  be  worshipped  ;  she  was  capable,  surely, 
on  her  part,  of  the  height  and  heroism  of  love.  ( Those 
tokens  which  he  had  hitherto  considered  as  proofs  of  a 
frightful  peculiarity  in  her  physical  and  moral  system 
were  now  either  forgotten,  or,  by  the  subtle  sophistry  of 
passion  transmitted  into  a  golden  crown  of  enchant 
ment,  rendering  Beatrice  the  more  admirable  by  so 
much  as  she  was  the  more  unique.  Whatever  had 
looked  ugly  was  now  beautiful ;  or,  if  incapable  of 


RAPPACCINl'S  DAUGHTER.  133 

such  a  change,  it  stole  away  and  hid  itself  among  those 
shapeless  half  ideas  which  throng  the  dim  region  be 
yond  the  daylight  of  our  perfect  consciousness.  Thus 
did  he  spend  the  night,  nor  fell  asleep  until  the  dawn 
had  begun  to  awake  the  slumbering  flowers  in  Dr. 
Rappaccini's  garden,  whither  Giovanni's  dreams  doubt 
less  led  him.  Up  rose  the  sun  in  his  due  season,  and, 
flinging  his  beams  upon  the  young  man's  eyelids, 
awoke  him  to  a  sense  of  pain.  When  thoroughly 
aroused,  he  became  sensible  of  a  burning  and  tingling 
agony  in  his  hand  —  in  his  right  hand  —  the  very  hand 
which  Beatrice  had  grasped  in  her  own  when  he  was 
on  the  point  of  plucking  one  of  the  gemlike  flowers. 
On  the  back  of  that  hand  there  was  now  a  purple  print 
like  that  of  four  small  fingers,  and  the  likeness  of  a 
slender  thumb  upon  his  wrist. 

Oh,  how  stubbornly  does  love,  —  or  even  that  cun 
ning  semblance  of  love  which  flourishes  in  the  imagi 
nation,  but  strikes  no  depth  of  root  into  the  heart,  — 
how  stubbornly  does  it  hold  its  faith  until  the  moment 
comes  when  it  is  doomed  to  vanish  into  thin  mist ! 
Giovanni  wrapped  a  handkerchief  about  his  hand  and 
wondered  what  evil  thing  had  stung  him,  and  soon 
forgot  his  pain  in  a  reverie  of  Beatrice. 

After  the  first  interview,  a  second  was  in  the  inevi 
table  course  of  what  we  call  fate.  A  third  ;  a  fourth ; 
and  a  meeting  with  Beatrice  in  the  garden  was  no 
longer  an  incident  in  Giovanni's  daily  life,  but  the 
whole  space  in  which  he  might  be  said  to  live ;  for  the 
anticipation  and  memory  of  that  ecstatic  hour  made  up 
the  remainder.  Nor  was  it  otherwise  with  the  daugh 
ter  of  Rappaccini.  She  watched  for  the  youth's  ap 
pearance,  and  flew  to  his  side  with  confidence  as  unre* 
served  as  if  they  had  been  playmates  from  early 


134          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

infancy  —  as  if  they  were  such  playmates  still.  If, 
by  any  unwonted  chance,  he  failed  to  come  at  the  ap 
pointed  moment,  she  stood  beneath  the  window  and 
sent  up  the  rich  sweetness  of  her  tones  to  float  around 
him  in  his  chamber  and  echo  and  reverberate  through 
out  his  heart :  "  Giovanni  !  Giovanni !  Why  tarriest 
thou  ?  Come  down  !  "  And  down  he  hastened  into 
that  Eden  of  poisonous  flowers. 

But,  with  all  this  intimate  familiarity,  there  was  still 
a  reserve  in  Beatrice's  demeanor,  so  rigidly  and  inva 
riably  sustained  that  the  idea  of  infringing  it  scarcely 
occurred  to  his  imagination.  By  all  appreciable  signs, 
they  loved ;  they  had  looked  love  with  eyes  that  con 
veyed  the  holy  secret  from  the  depths  of  one  soul  into 
the  depths  of  the  other,  as  if  it  were  too  sacred  to  be 
whispered  by  the  way ;  they  had  even  spoken  love  in 
those  gushes  of  passion  when  their  spirits  darted  forth 
in  articulated  breath  like  tongues  of  long-hidden  flame ; 
and  yet  there  had  been  no  seal  of  lips,  no  clasp  of 
hands,  nor  any  slightest  caress  such  as  love  claims  and 
hallows.  He  had  never  touched  one  of  the  gleaming 
ringlets  of  her  hair  ;  her  garment  —  so  marked  was 
the  physical  barrier  between  them  —  had  never  been 
waved  against  him  by  a  breeze.  On  the  few  occasions 
when  Giovanni  had  seemed  tempted  to  overstep  the 
limit,  Beatrice  grew  so  sad,  so  stern,  and  withal  wore 
such  a  look  of  desolate  separation,  shuddering  at  itself, 
that  not  a  spoken  word  was  requisite  to  repel  him.  At 
such  times  he  was  startled  at  the  horrible  suspicions 
that  rose,  monster-like,  out  of  the  caverns  of  his  heart 
and  stared  him  in  the  face ;  his  love  grew  thin  and 
faint  as  the  morning  mist ,  his  doubts  alone  had  sub 
stance.  But,  when  Beatrice's  face  brightened  again 
after  the  momentary  shadow,  she  was  transformed  at 


RAPPACCINrS  DAUGHTER.  135 

once  from  the  mysterious,  questionable  being  whom  he 
had  watched  with  so  much  awe  and  horror ;  she  was 
now  the  beautiful  and  unsophisticated  girl  whom  he 
felt  that  his  spirit  knew  with  a  certainty  beyond  all 
other  knowledge. 

A  considerable  time  had  now  passed  since  Giovan 
ni's  last  meeting  with  Baglioni.  One  morning,  how 
ever,  he  was  disagreeably  surprised  by  a  visit  from  the 
professor,  whom  he  had  scarcely  thought  of  for  whole 
weeks,  and  would  willingly  have  forgotten  still  longer. 
Given  up  as  he  had  long  been  to  a  pervading  excite 
ment,  he  could  tolerate  no  companions  except  upon 
condition  of  their  perfect  sympathy  with  his  present 
state  of  feeling.  Such  sympathy  was  not  to  be  ex 
pected  from  Professor  Baglioni. 

The  visitor  chatted  carelessly  for  a  few  moments 
about  the  gossip  of  the  city  and  the  university,  and 
then  took  up  another  topic. 

"  I  have  been  reading  an  old  classic  author  lately," 
said  he,  "and  met  with  a  story  that  strangely  inter 
ested  me.  Possibly  you  may  remember  it.  It  is  of  an 
Indian  prince,  who  sent  a  beautiful  woman  as  a  pres 
ent  to  Alexander  the  Great.  She  was  as  lovely  as  the 
dawn  and  gorgeous  as  the  sunset ;  but  what  especially 
distinguished  her  was  a  certain  rich  perfume  in  her 
breath  —  richer  than  a  garden  of  Persian  roses.  Al 
exander,  as  was  natural  to  a  youthful  conqueror,  fell 
in  love  at  first  sight  with  this  magnificent  stranger ; 
but  a  certain  sage  physician,  happening  to  be  present, 
discovered  a  terrible  secret  in  regard  to  her." 

"And  what  was  that?"  asked  Giovanni,  turning 
his  eyes  down-ward  to  avoid  those  of  the  professor. 

"  That  this  lovely  woman,"  continued  Baglioni,  with 
emphasis,  "  had  been  nourished  with  poisons  from  hei 


136          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

birth  upward,  until  her  whole  nature  was  so  imbued 
with  them  that  she  herself  had  become  the  deadliest 
poison  in  existence.  Poison  was  her  element  of  life. 
With  that  rich  perfume  of  her  breath  she  blasted  the 
very  air.  Her  love  would  have  been  poison  —  her  em 
brace  death.  Is  not  this  a  marvellous  tale  ?  " 

"A  childish  fable,"  answered  Giovanni,  nervously 
starting  from  his  chair.  "  I  marvel  how  your  worship 
finds  time  to  read  such  nonsense  among  your  graver 
studies." 

"  By  the  by,"  said  the  professor,  looking  uneasily 
about  him,  "  what  singular  fragrance  is  this  in  your 
apartment  ?  Is  it  the  perfume  of  your  gloves  ?  It  is 
faint,  but  delicious  ;  and  yet,  after  all,  by  no  means 
agreeable.  Were  I  to  breathe  it  long,  methinks  it 
would  make  me  ill.  It  is  like  the  breath  of  a  flower ; 
but  I  see  no  flowers  in  the  chamber." 

"Nor  are  there  any,"  replied  Giovanni,  who  had 
turned  pale  as  the  professor  spoke  ;  "  nor,  I  think,  is 
there  any  fragrance  except  in  your  worship's  imagina 
tion.  Odors,  being  a  sort  of  element  combined  of  the 
sensual  and  the  spiritual,  are  apt  to  deceive  us  in  this 
manner.  The  recollection  of  a  perfume,  the  bare  idea 
of  it,  may  easily  be  mistaken  for  a  present  reality." 

"  Ay ;  but  my  sober  imagination  does  not  often  play 
such  tricks,"  said  Baglioni ;  "  and,  were  I  to  fancy 
any  kind  of  odor,  it  would  be  that  of  some  vile  apothe 
cary  drug,  wherewith  my  fingers  are  likely  enough  to 
be  imbued.  Our  worshipful  friend  Rappaccini,  as 
I  have  heard,  tinctures  his  medicaments  with  odors 
richer  than  those  of  Araby.  Doubtless,  likewise,  the 
fair  and  learned  Signora  Beatrice  would  minister  to 
tier  patients  with  draughts  as  sweet  as  a  maiden's 
breath  ;  but  woe  to  him  that  sips  them  I  " 


RAPPACCINl'S  DAUGHTER.  137 

Giovanni's  face  evinced  many  contending  emotions. 
The  tone  in  which  the  professor  alluded  to  the  pure 
and  lovely  daughter  of  Rappaccini  was  a  torture  to 
his  soul ;  and  yet  the  intimation  of  a  view  of  her  char 
acter,  opposite  to  his  own,  gave  instantaneous  distinct 
ness  to  a  thousand  dim  suspicions,  which  now  grinned 
at  him  like  so  many  demons.  But  he  strove  hard  to 
quell  them  and  to  respond  to  Baglioni  with  a  true 
lover's  perfect  faith. 

"  Signer  professor,"  said  he,  "  you  were  my  father's 
friend;  perchance,  too,  it  is  your  purpose  to  act  a 
friendly  part  towards  his  son.  I  would  fain  feel 
nothing  towards  you  save  respect  and  deference  ;  but 
I  pray  you  to  observe,  signor,  that  there  is  one  subject 
on  which  we  must  not  speak.  You  know  not  the  Sig- 
nora  Beatrice.  You  cannot,  therefore,  estimate  the 
wrong  —  the  blasphemy,  I  may  even  say  —  that  is 
offered  to  her  character  by  a  light  or  injurious  word." 

"  Giovanni  !  my  poor  Giovanni  !  "  answered  the  pro 
fessor,  with  a  calm  expression  of  pity,  "  I  know  this 
wretched  girl  far  better  than  yourself.  You  shall 
hear  the  truth  in  respect  to  the  poisoner  Rappaccini 
and  his  poisonous  daughter ;  yes,  poisonous  as  she  is 
beautiful.  Listen ;  for,  even  should  you  do  violence  to 
my  gray  hairs,  it  shall  not  silence  me.  That  old  fable 
of  the  Indian  woman  has  become  a  truth  by  the  deep 
and  deadly  science  of  Rappaccini  and  in  the  person  of 
the  lovely  Beatrice." 

Giovanni  groaned  and  hid  his  face. 

"  Her  father,"  continued  Baglioni,  "  was  not  re 
strained  by  natural  affection  from  offering  up  his  child 
in  this  horrible  manner  as  the  victim  of  his  insane  zeal 
for  science  ;  for,  let  us  do  him  justice,  he  is  as  true  a 
\nan  of  science  as  ever  distilled  his  own  heart  in  an 


138          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

alembic.  What,  then,  will  be  your  fate  ?  Beyond  a 
doubt  you  are  selected  as  the  material  of  some  new 
experiment.  Perhaps  the  result  is  to  be  death;  per 
haps  a  fate  more  awful  still.  Rappaccini,  with  what 
he  calls  the  interest  of  science  before  his  eyes,  will 
hesitate  at  nothing." 

"  It  is  a  dream,"  muttered  Giovanni  to  himself ; 
"  surely  it  is  a  dream." 

"  But,"  resumed  the  professor,  "  be  of  good  cheer, 
son  of  my  friend.  It  is  not  yet  too  late  for  the  rescue. 
Possibly  we  may  even  succeed  in  bringing  back  this 
miserable  child  within  the  limits  of  ordinary  nature, 
from  which  her  father's  madness  has  estranged  her. 
Behold  this  little  silver  vase !  It  was  wrought  by  the 
hands  of  the  renowned  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  is  well 
worthy  to  be  a  love  gift  to  the  fairest  dame  in 
Italy.  But  its  contents  are  invaluable.  One  little 
sip  of  this  antidote  would  have  rendered  the  most 
virulent  poisons  of  the  Borgias  innocuous.  Doubt  not 
that  it  will  be  as  efficacious  against  those  of  Rappac- 
ciiii.  Bestow  the  vase,  and  the  precious  liquid  within 
it,  on  your  Beatrice,  and  hopefully  await  the  result." 

Baglioni  laid  a  small,  exquisitely  wrought  silver 
vial  on  the  table  and  withdrew,  leaving  what  he  had 
said  to  produce  its  effect  upon  the  young  man's  mind. 

"  We  will  thwart  Rappaccini  yet,"  thought  he, 
chuckling  to  himself,  as  he  descended  the  stairs; 
"  but,  let  us  confess  the  truth  of  him,  he  is  a  wonder 
ful  man  —  a  wonderful  man  indeed  ;  a  vile  empiric, 
however,  in  his  practice,  and  therefore  not  to  be  tol 
erated  by  those  who  respect  the  good  old  rules  of  the 
medical  profession." 

Throughout  Giovanni's  whole  acquaintance  with 
Beatrice,  he  had  occasionally,  as  we  have  said,  been 


RAPPACCINPS   DAUGHTER.  139 

haunted  by  dark  surmises  as  to  her  character ;  yet  so 
thoroughly  had  she  made  herself  felt  by  him  as  a 
simple,  natural,  most  affectionate,  and  guileless  crea- 
hire,  that  the  image  now  held  up  by  Professor  Baglioni 
looked  as  strange  and  incredible  as  if  it  were  hot  in 
accordance  with  his  own  original  conception.  True, 
there  were  ugly  recollections  connected  with  his  first 
glimpses  of  the  beautiful  girl ;  he  could  not  quite  for 
get  the  bouquet  that  withered  in  her  grasp,  and  the 
insect  that  perished  amid  the  sunny  air,  by  no  osten 
sible  agency  save  the  fragrance  of  her  breath.  These 
incidents,  however,  dissolving  in  the  pure  light  of  her 
character,  had  no  longer  the  efficacy  of  facts,  but  were 
acknowledged  as  mistaken  fantasies,  by  whatever  testi 
mony  of  the  senses  they  might  appear  to  be  substan 
tiated.  There  is  something  truer  and  more  real  than 
what  we  can  see  with  the  eyes  and  touch  with  the 
finger.  On  such  better  evidence  had  Giovanni  founded 
his  confidence  in  Beatrice,  though  rather  by  the  neces 
sary  force  of  her  high  attributes  than  by  any  deep  and 
generous  faith  on  his  part.  But  now  his  spirit  was 
incapable  of  sustaining  itself  at  the  height  to  which 
the  early  enthusiasm  of  passion  had  exalted  it ;  he  fell 
down,  grovelling  among  earthly  doubts,  and  defiled 
therewith  the  pure  whiteness  of  Beatrice's  image.  Not 
that  he  gave  her  up  ;  he  did  but  distrust.  He  resolved 
to  institute  some  decisive  test  that  should  satisfy  him, 
once  for  all,  whether  there  were  those  dreadful  pe 
culiarities  in  her  physical  nature  which  could  not  be 
supposed  to  exist  without  some  corresponding  mon 
strosity  of  soul.  His  eyes,  gazing  down  afar,  might 
have  deceived  him  as  to  the  lizard,  the  insect,  and  the 
flowers  ;  but  if  he  could  witness,  at  the  distance  of 
a  few  paces,  the  sudden  blight  of  one  fresh  and  health- 


140  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ful  flower  in  Beatrice's  hand,  there  would  be  room  for 
no  further  question.  With  this  idea  he  hastened  to  the 
florist's  and  purchased  a  bouquet  that  was  still  gemmed 
with  the  morning  dew-drops. 

It  was  now  the  customary  hour  of  his  daily  inter 
view  with  Beatrice.  Before  descending  into  the  gar 
den,  Giovanni  failed  not  to  look  at  his  figure  in  the 
mirror,  —  a  vanity  to  be  expected  in  a  beautiful  young 
man,  yet,  as  displaying  itself  at  that  troubled  and 
feverish  moment,  the  token  of  a  certain  shallowness  of 
feeling  and  insincerity  of  character.  He  did  gaze, 
however,  and  said  to  himself  that  his  features  had 
never  before  possessed  so  rich  a  grace,  nor  his  eyes 
such  vivacity,  nor  his  cheeks  so  warm  a  hue  of  super 
abundant  life. 

"  At  least,"  thought  he,  "  her  poison  has  not  yet 
insinuated  itself  into  my  system.  I  am  no  flower  to 
perish  in  her  grasp." 

With  that  thought  he  turned  his  eyes  on  the 
bouquet,  which  he  had  never  once  laid  aside  from  his 
hand.  A  thrill  of  indefinable  horror  shot  through  his 
frame  on  perceiving  that  those  dewy  flowers  were  al 
ready  beginning  to  droop  ;  they  wore  the  aspect  of 
things  that  had  been  fresh  and  lovely  yesterday.  Gio 
vanni  grew  white  as  marble,  and  stood  motionless  be 
fore  the  mirror,  staring  at  his  own  reflection  there  as 
at  the  likeness  of  something  frightful.  He  remem 
bered  Baglioni's  remark  about  the  fragrance  that 
seemed  to  pervade  fche  chamber.  It  must  have  been 
the  poison  in  his  breath !  Then  he  shuddered  —  shud 
dered  at  himself.  Recovering  from  his  stupor,  he 
began  to  watch  with  curious  eye  a  spider  that  was 
busily  at  work  hanging  its  web  from  the  antique  cor 
nice  of  the  apartment,  crossing  and  recrossing  the 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  141 

artful  system  of  interwoven  lines  —  as  vigorous  and 
active  a  spider  as  ever  dangled  from  an  old  ceiling. 
Giovanni  bent  towards  the  insect,  and  emitted  a  deep, 
long  breath.  The  spider  suddenly  ceased  its  toil ;  the 
web  vibrated  with  a  tremor  originating  in  the  body 
of  the  small  artisan.  Again  Giovanni  sent  forth  a 
breath,  deeper,  longer,  and  imbued  with  a  venomous 
feeling  out  of  his  heart:  he  knew  not  whether  he 
were  wicked,  or  only  desperate.  The  spider  made  a 
convulsive  gripe  with  his  limbs  and  hung  dead  across 
the  window. 

"  Accursed !  accursed !  "  muttered  Giovanni,  ad 
dressing  himself.  "  Hast  thou  grown  so  poisonous 
that  tliis  deadly  insect  perishes  by  thy  breath  ?  " 

At  that  moment  a  rich,  sweet  voice  came  floating 
up  from  the  garden. 

"  Giovanni !  Giovanni !  It  is  past  the  hour !  Why 
tarriest  thou  ?  Come  down  !  " 

"  Yes,"  muttered  Giovanni  again.  "  She  is  the  only 
being  whom  my  breath  may  not  slay  !  Would  that  it 
might!" 

He  rushed  down,  and  in  an  instant  was  standing  be 
fore  the  bright  and  loving  eyes  of  Beatrice.  A  mo 
ment  ago  his  wrath  and  despair  had  been  so  fierce  that 
he  could  have  desired  nothing  so  much  as  to  wither 
her  by  a  glance  ;  but  with  her  actual  presence  there 
came  influences  which  had  too  real  an  existence  to  be 
at  once  shaken  off :  recollections  of  the  delicate  and 
benign  power  of  her  feminine  nature,  which  had  so 
often  enveloped  him  in  a  religious  calm  ;  recollections 
of  many  a  holy  and  passionate  outgush  of  her  heart, 
when  the  pure  fountain  had  been  unsealed  from  its 
depths  and  made  visible  in  its  transparency  to  his 
mental  eye ;  recollections  which,  had  Giovanni  known 


142          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

how  to  estimate  them,  would  have  assured  him  that  all 
this  ugly  mystery  was  but  an  earthly  illusion,  and 
that,  whatever  mist  of  evil  might  seem  to  have  gath 
ered  over  her,  the  real  Beatrice  was  a  heavenly  angel. 
Incapable  as  he  was  of  such  high  faith,  still  her  pres 
ence  had  not  utterly  lost  its  magic.  Giovanni's  rage 
was  quelled  into  an  aspect  of  sullen  insensibility. 
Beatrice,  with  a  quick  spiritual  sense,  immediately 
felt  that  there  was  a  gulf  of  blackness  between  them 
which  neither  he  nor  she  could  pass.  They  walked  on 
together,  sad  and  silent,  and  came  thus  to  the  marble 
fountain  and  to  its  pool  of  water  on  the  ground,  in  the 
midst  of  which  grew  the  shrub  that  bore  gem-like 
blossoms.  Giovanni  was  affrighted  at  the  eager  en- 
'joyment  —  the  appetite,  as  it  were  —  with  which  he 
found  himself  inhaling  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers. 

"  Beatrice,"  asked  he,  abruptly,  "  whence  came  this 
shrub?" 

"My  father  created  it,"  answered  she,  with  sim 
plicity. 

"  Created  it !  created  it !  "  repeated  Giovanni. 
"  What  mean  you,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  man  fearfully  acquainted  with  the  secrets 
of  Nature,"  replied  Beatrice ;  "  and,  at  the  hour  when 
I  first  drew  breath,  this  plant  sprang  from  the  soil,  the 
offspring  of  his  science,  of  his  intellect,  while  I  was 
but  his  earthly  child.  Approach  it  not !  "  continued 
she,  observing  with  terror  that  Giovanni  was  drawing 
nearer  to  the  shrub.  "  It  has  qualities  that  you  little 
dream  of.  But  I,  dearest  Giovanni,  —  I  grew  up  and 
blossomed  with  the  plant  and  was  nourished  with  its 
breath.  It  was  my  sister,  and  I  loved  it  with  a  human 
affection  ;  for,  alas !  —  hast  thou  not  suspected  it  ?  — * 
there  was  an  awful  doom." 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  143 

Here  Giovanni  frowned  so  darkly  upon  her  that 
Beatrice  paused  and  trembled.  But  her  faith  in  his 
tenderness  reassured  her,  and  made  her  blush  that  she 
had  doubted  for  an  instant. 

"  There  was  an  awful  doom,"  she  continued,  "  the 
effect  of  my  father's  fatal  love  of  science,  which  es 
tranged  me  from  all  society  of  my  kind.  Until 
Heaven  sent  thee,  dearest  Giovanni,  oh,  how  lonely 
was  thy  poor  Beatrice !  " 

"  Was  it  a  hard  doom  ?  "  asked  Giovanni,  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  her. 

"  Only  of  late  have  I  known  how  hard  it  was,"  an 
swered  she,  tenderly.  "  Oh,  yes  ;  but  my  heart  was 
torpid,  and  therefore  quiet." 

Giovanni's  rage  broke  forth  from  his  sullen  gloom 
like  a  lightning  flash  out  of  a  dark  cloud. 

"  Accursed  one !  "  cried  he,  with  venomous  scorn 
and  anger.  "And,  finding  thy  solitude  wearisome, 
thou  hast  severed  me  likewise  from  all  the  warmth  of 
life  and  enticed  me  into  thy  region  of  unspeakable 
horror ! " 

"  Giovanni !  "  exclaimed  Beatrice,  turning  her  large 
•bright  eyes  upon  his  face.  The  force  of  his  words  had 
not  found  its  way  into  her  mind ;  she  was  merely  thun 
derstruck. 

"  Yes,  poisonous  thing  !  "  repeated  Giovanni,  beside 
himself  with  passion.  "Thou  hast  done  it!  Thou 
hast  blasted  me !  Thou  hast  filled  my  veins  with  poi 
son  !  Thou  hast  made  me  as  hateful,  as  ugly,  as  loath 
some  and  deadly  a  creature  as  thyself  — a  world's 
wonder  of  hideous  monstrosity  !  Now,  if  our  breath 
be  happily  as  fatal  to  ourselves  as  to  all  others,  let  us 
join  our  lips  in  one  kiss  of  unutterable  hatred,  and  so 
die!" 


144          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  What  has  befallen  me  ?  "  murmured  Beatrice,  witlb 
a  low  moan  out  of  her  heart.  "  Holy  Virgin,  pity  me, 
a  poor  heart-broken  child !  " 

"  Thou,  —  dost  thou  pray  ?  "  cried  Giovanni,  still 
with  the  same  fiendish  scorn.  "  Thy  very  prayers,  as 
they  come  from  thy  lips,  taint  the  atmosphere  with 
death.  Yes,  yes  ;  let  us  pray !  Let  us  to  church  and 
dip  our  fingers  in  the  holy  water  at  the  portal !  They 
that  come  after  us  will  perish  as  by  a  pestilence  !  Let 
us  sign  crosses  in  the  air !  It  will  be  scattering  curses 
abroad  in  the  likeness  of  holy  symbols  !  " 

"  Giovanni,"  said  Beatrice,  calmly,  for  her  grief 
was  beyond  passion,  "  why  dost  thou  join  thyself  with 
me  thus  in  those  terrible  words  ?  I,  it  is  true,  am  the 
horrible  thing  thou  namest  me.  But  thou, — what  hast 
thou  to  do,  save  with  one  other  shudder  at  my  hideous 
misery  to  go  forth  out  of  the  garden  and  mingle  with 
thy  race,  and  forget  that  there  ever  crawled  on  earth 
such  a  monster  as  poor  Beatrice  ?  " 

"Dost  thou  pretend  ignorance?"  asked  Giovanni, 
scowling  upon  her.  "Behold!  this  power  have  I 
gained  from  the  pure  daughter  of  Rappaccini." 

There  was  a  swarm  of  summer  insects  flitting 
through  the  air  in  search  of  the  food  promised  by  the 
flower  odors  of  the  fatal  garden.  They  circled  round 
Giovanni's  head,  and  were  evidently  attracted  towards 
him  by  the  same  influence  which  had  drawn  them  for 
an  instant  within  the  sphere  of  several  of  the  shrubs. 
He  sent  forth  a  breath  among  them,  and  smiled  bit 
terly  at  Beatrice  as  at  least  a  score  of  the  insects  fell 
dead  upon  the  ground. 

"  I  see  it !  I  see  it !  "  shrieked  Beatrice.  "  It  is  my 
father's  fatal  science !  No,  no,  Giovanni ;  it  was  not  1 1 
Never !  never  I  I  dreamed  only  to  love  thee  and  be 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER.  145 

with  thee  a  little  time,  and  so  to  let  thee  pass  away, 
leaving  but  thine  image  in  mine  heart ;  for,  Giovanni, 
believe  it,  though  my  body  be  nourished  with  poison, 
my  spirit  is  God's  creature,  and  craves  love  as  its  daily 
food.  But  my  father,  —  he  has  united  us  in  this  fear 
ful  sympathy.  Yes;  spurn  me,  tread  upon  me,  kill 
me !  Oh,  what  is  death  after  such  words  as  thine  ? 
But  it  was  not  I.  Not  for  a  world  of  bliss  would  I 
have  done  it." 

Giovanni's  passion  had  exhausted  itself  in  its  out 
burst  from  his  lips.  There  now  came  across  him  a 
sense,  mournful,  and  not  without  tenderness,  of  the 
intimate  and  peculiar  relationship  between  Beatrice 
and  himself.  They  stood,  as  it  were,  in  an  utter  soli 
tude,  which  would  be  made  none  the  less  solitary  by 
the  densest  throng  of  human  life.  Ought  not,  then, 
the  desert  of  humanity  around  them  to  press  this  in 
sulated  pair  closer  together  ?  If  they  should  be  cruel 
to  one  another,  who  was  there  to  be  kind  to  them  ? 
Besides,  thought  Giovanni,  might  there  not  still  be  a 
hope  of  his  returning  within  the  limits  of  ordinary 
nature,  and  leading  Beatrice,  the  redeemed  Beatrice, 
by  the  hand?  O,  weak,  and  selfish,  and  unworthy 
spirit,  that  could  dream  of  an  earthly  union  and 
earthly  happiness  as  possible,  after  such  deep  love  had 
been  so  bitterly  wronged  as  was  Beatrice's  love  by  Gio 
vanni's  blighting  words !  No,  no ;  there  could  be  no 
such  hope.  She  must  pass  heavily,  with  that  broken 
heart,  across  the  borders  of  Time  —  she  must  bathe 
her  hurts  in  some  fount  of  paradise,  and  forget  her 
grief  in  the  light  of  immortality,  and  there  be  well. 

But  Giovanni  did  not  know  it. 

"Dear  Beatrice,"  said  he,  approaching  her,  while 
she  shrank  away  as  always  at  his  approach,  but  no* 

VOL.   II-  10 


146          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

with  a  different  impulse,  "  dearest  Beatrice,  our  fate  is 
not  yet  so  desperate.  Behold!  there  is  a  medicine, 
potent,  as  a  wise  physician  has  assured  me,  and  almost 
divine  in  its  efficacy.  It  is  composed  of  ingredients 
the  most  opposite  to  those  by  which  thy  awful  father 
has  brought  this  calamity  upon  thee  and  me.  It  is 
distilled  of  blessed  herbs.  Shall  we  not  quaff  it  to 
gether,  and  thus  be  purified  from  evil?" 

"  Give  it  me ! "  said  Beatrice,  extending  her  hand 
to  receive  the  little  silver  vial  which  Giovanni  toot 
from  his  bosom.  She  added,  with  a  peculiar  empha 
sis,  "  I  will  drink ;  but  do  thou  await  the  result." 

She  put  Baglioni's  antidote  to  her  lips ;  and,  at  the 
same  moment,  the  figure  of  Rappaccini  emerged  from 
the  portal  and  came  slowly  towards  the  marble  fount 
ain.  As  he  drew  near,  the  pale  man  of  science  seemed 
to  gaze  with  a  triumphant  expression  at  the  beautiful 
youth  and  maiden,  as  might  an  artist  who  should  spend 
his  life  in  achieving  a  picture  or  a  group  of  statuary 
and  finally  be  satisfied  with  his  success.  He  paused ; 
his  bent  form  grew  erect  with  conscious  power;  he 
spread  out  his  hands  over  them  in  the  attitude  of  a 
father  imploring  a  blessing  upon  his  children;  but 
those  were  the  same  hands  that  had  thrown  poison 
into  the  stream  of  their  lives.  Giovanni  trembled. 
Beatrice  shuddered  nervously,  and  pressed  her  hand 
upon  her  heart. 

"My  daughter,"  said  Rappaccini,  "thou  art  no 
longer  lonely  in  the  world.  Pluck  one  of  those  pre 
cious  gems  from  thy  sister  shrub  and  bid  thy  bride 
groom  wear  it  in  his  bosom.  It  will  not  harm  him 
now.  My  science  and  the  sympathy  between  thee  and 
him  have  so  wrought  within  his  system  that  he  no\? 
stands  apart  from  common  men,  as  thou  dost,  daughter 


EAPPACCINPS   DAUGHTER.  147 

tf  my  pride  and  triumph,  from  ordinary  women.  Pass 
on,  then,  through  the  world,  most  dear  to  one  another 
and  dreadful  to  all  besides !  " 

"  My  father,"  said  Beatrice,  feebly,  —  and  still  as 
she  spoke  she  kept  her  hand  upon  her  heart,— 
"wherefore  didst  thou  inflict  this  miserable  doom 
upon  thy  child?" 

"  Miserable ! "  exclaimed  Rappaccini.  "  What  mean 
you,  foolish  girl  ?  Dost  thou  deem  it  misery  to  be  en 
dowed  with  marvellous  gifts  against  which  no  power 
nor  strength  could  avail  an  enemy — misery,  to  be 
able  to  quell  the  mightiest  with  a  breath  —  misery,  tc 
be  as  terrible  as  thou  art  beautiful?  Wouldst  thou, 
then,  have  preferred  the  condition  of  a  weak  woman, 
exposed  to  all  evil  and  capable  of  none  ?  " 

"  I  would  fain  have  been  loved,  not  feared,"*  mur 
mured  Beatrice,  sinking  down  upon  the  ground.  "  But 
now  it  matters  not.  I  am  going,  father,  where  the  evil 
which  thou  hast  striven  to  mingle  with  my  being  will 
pass  away  like  a  dream  —  like  the  fragrance  of  these 
poisonous  flowers,  which  will  no  longer  taint  my  breath 
among  the  flowers  of  Eden.  Farewell,  Giovanni !  Thy 
words  of  hatred  are  like  lead  within  my  heart;  but 
they,  too,  will  fall  away  as  I  ascend.  Oh,  was  there 
not,  from  the  first,  more  poison  in  thy  nature  than  in 
mine  ?  " 

To  Beatrice,  —  so  radically  had  her  earthly  part 
been  wrought  upon  by  Rappacciiii's  skill,  —  as  poison 
had  been  life,  so  the  powerful  antidote  was  death; 
and  thus  the  poor  victim  of-  man's  ingenuity  and  of 
thwarted  nature,  and  of  the  fatality  that  attends  all 
Buch  efforts  of  perverted  wisdom,  perished  there,  at 
the  feet  of  her  father  and  Giovanni.  Just  at  that  mo- 


148 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


ment  Professor  Pietro  Baglioni  looked  forth  from  the 
window,  and  called  loudly,  in  a  tone  of  triumph  mixed 
with  horror,  to  the  thunderstricken  man  of  science,  — 
"  Rappaccini !  Rappaccini !  and  is  this  the  upshot 
of  your  experiment  1" 


MRS.  BULLFROG 

IT  makes  me  melancholy  to  see  how  like  fools  some 
very  sensible  people  act  in  the  matter  of  choosing 
wives.  They  perplex  their  judgments  by  a  most  undue 
attention  to  little  niceties  of  personal  appearance,  hab 
its,  disposition,  and  other  trifles  which  concern  nobody 
but  the  lady  herself.  An  unhappy  gentleman,  resolv 
ing  to  wed  nothing  short  of  perfection,  keeps  his  heart 
and  hand  till  both  get  so  old  and  withered  that  no  tol 
erable  woman  will  accent  them.  Now  this  is  the  very 
height  of  absurdity.  /A  kind  Providence  has  so  skil 
fully  adapted  sex  to  sex  and  the  mass  of  individuals 
to  each  other,  that,  with  certain  obvious  exceptions, 
any  male  and  female  may  be  moderately  happy  in  the 
married  state.  The  true  rule  is  to  ascertain  that  the 
match  is  fundamentally  a  good  one,  and  then  to  take 
it  for  granted  that  all  minor  objections,  should  there 
be  such,  will  vanish,  if  you  let  them  alone.  Only  put 
yourself  beyond  hazard  as  to  the  real  basis  of  matri 
monial  bliss,  and  it  is  scarcely  to  be  imagined  what 
miracles,  in  the  way  of  recognizing  smaller  incongrui 
ties,  connubjaLlove  will  effect.^ 

For  my  own  part  I  freely"confess  that,  in  my  bach 
elorship,  I  was  precisely  such  an  over-curiojasL^imple- 
toii  as  I  now  advise  the  reader  not  to  be.  j  My  early 
habits  had  gifted  me  witn  a  feminine  sensiBiIity  and 
too  exquisite  refinement.  I  was  the  accomplished 
graduate  of  a  dry  goods  store,  where,  by  dint  of  min 
istering  to  the  whims  of  fine  ladies,  and  suiting  silken 


150          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

hose  to  delicate  limbs,  and  handling  satins,  ribbons, 
chintzes,  calicoes,  tapes,  gauze,  and  cambric  needles,  I 
grew  up  a  very  ladylike  sort  of  a  gentleman.  It  is 
not  assuming  too  much  to  affirm  that  the  ladies  them 
selves  were  hardly  so  ladylike  as  Thomas  Bullfrog.  So 
painfully  acute  was  my  sense  of  female  imperfection, 
and  such  varied  excellence  did  I  require  in  the  woman 
whom  I  could  love,  that  there  was  an  awful  risk  of  my 
getting  no  wife  at  all,  or  of  being  driven  to  perpetrate 
matrimony  with  my  own  image  in  the  looking-gl 
Besides  the  fundamental  principle  already  hinted  al 
I  demanded  the  fresh  bloom  of  youth,  ^pearly 
glossy  ringlets,  and  the  whole  list  of  lovely  items,  with 
the  utmost  delicacy  of  habits  and  sentiments,  a  silken 
texture  of  mind,  and,  above  all,  a  virgin  heart,  f^a 
word,  if  a  young  angel  just  from  paradise,  yet  dressed 
in  earthly  fashion,  had  come  and  offered  me  her  hand, 
it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  I  should  have  takenUT" 
There  was  every  chance  of  my  becoming  a  most  mts^ 
erable  old  bachelor,  when,  by  the  best  luck  in  the 
world,  I  made  a  journey  into  another  state,  and  was 
smitten  by,  and  smote  again,  and  wooed,  won,  and 
married,  the  present  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  all  in  the  space  of 
a  fortnight.  Owing  to  these  extempore  measures,  I 
not  only  gave  my  bride  credit  for  certain  perfections 
which  have  not  as  yet  come  to  light,  but  also  over 
looked  a  few  trifling  defects,  which,  however,  glim 
mered  on  my  inception  long  before  the  close  of  the 
honeymoon..  iTet,  as  there  was  no  mistake  about  the 
fundamental  principle  aforesaKLjIjigon  learned,  as  will 
beseen,toestimate  Mrs^RnTTTrng's  deficiencies  and 
superfluities  at  exactly  their  proper  value. 

The  same  morning  that  Mrs.  Bullfrog  and  I  came 
together  as  a  unit,  we  took  two  seats  in  the  stage-coaeb 


MRS.  BULLFROG.  151 

find  began  our  journey  towards  my  place  of  business. 
There  being  no  other  passengers,  we  were  as  much 
"alone  aUd~Tt$-£ree  to  give  vent  to  our  raptures  as  if  I 
had  hired  a  hack  for  .the  matrimonial  jaunt.  My  bride 
looked  charmingly  in  a"  green  silk  calash  and  riding 
\iabit  of  pelisse  cloth ;  and  whenever  her  red  lips 
parted  with  a  smile,  each  tooth  appeared  like  an  ines- 
^tiinable  pearl.  Such  was  my  passionate  warmth  tha 
—  we  had  rattled  out  of  the  village,  gentle  reader, 
were  lonely  as  Adam  and  Eve  in  paradise  —  I  plead 
guilty  to  no  less  freedom  than  a  kiss.  The  gentle  eye 
of  Mrs.  Bullfrog  scarcely  rebuked  me  for  the  profana 
tion.  Emboldened  by  her  indulgence,  I  threw  back 
the  calash  from  her  polished  brow,  and  suffered  my 
fingers,  white  and  delicate  as  her  own,  to  stray  among 
those  dark  and  glossy  curls  which  realized  my  day 
dreams  of  rich  hair. 

"  My  love,"  said  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  tenderly,  "  you  will 
disarrange  my  curls." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  sweet  Laura  !  "  replied  I,  still  playing 
with  the  glossy  ringlet.  "  Even  your  fair  hand  could 
not  manage  a  curl  more  delicately  than  mine.  I  pro 
pose  myself  the  pleasure  of  doing  up  your  hair  in 
papers  every  evening  at  the  same  time  with  my  own." 

"  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  repeated  she,  "  you  must  not  dis 
arrange  my  curls." 

This  was  spoken  in  a  more  decided  tone  than  I  had 
happened  to  hear,  until  then,  from  my  gentlest  of  all 
gentle  brides.  At  the  same  time  she  put  up  her  hand 
and  took  mine  prisoner ;  but  merely  drew  it  away  from 
the  forbidden  ringlet,  and  then  immediately  released 
it.  Now,  I  am  a  fidgety  little  man,  and  always  love  to 
have  something  in  my  fingers ;  so  that,  Being^debarred 
from  my  wife's  curls,  I  looked  about  me  for  any  othei 


152          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

plaything!  On  the  front  seat  of  the  coach  there  wag 
one  of  tnose  small  baskets  in  which  travelling  ladies 
who  are  too  delicate  to  appear  at  a  public  table  gen 
erally  carry  a  supply  of  gingerbread,  biscuits  and 
cheese,  cold  ham,  and  other  light  refreshments,  merely 
to  sustain  nature  to  the  journey's  end.  \^uch  airy  diet 
will  sometimes  keep  them  in  pretty  goocl  flesh  for  a 
week  together^  Laying  hold  of  this  same  little  basket, 
I  thrust  my  hand  under  the  newspaper  with  which  it 
was  carefully  covered. 

"What's  this,  my  dear?"  cried  I;  for  the  black 
neck  of  a  bottle  had  popped  out  of  the  basket. 

"  A  bottle  of  Kalydor,  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  s*iftNtu#^ife, 
coolly  taking  the  basket  from  my  hands  and  replacing 
itjMi  the  front  seat. 

VTiiere^was  no  possibility  of  doubting  my  wife's 
word  ;  but  I  never  knew  genuine  Kalydor,  such  as  I  use 
for  my  own  complexion,  to  smell  so  much  like  cherry 
brandy.  I  was  about  to  express  my  fears  that  the 
lotion  would  injure  her  skin,  when  an  accident  oc 
curred  which  threatened  more  than  a  skin-deep  injury. 
Our  Jehu  had  carelessly  driven  over  a  heap  of  gravel 
and  fairly  capsized  the  coach,  with  the  wheels  in  the 
air  and  our  heels  where  our  heads  should  have  been. 
What  became  of  my  wits  I  cannot  imagine  ;  they  have 
always  had  a  perverse  trick  of  deserting  me"  just  when 
they  were  most  needed ;  but  so  it  chanced,  that  in  the 
confusion  of  our  overthrow}  I  quite  forgot  that  there 
was  a  Mrs.  Bullfrog  in  tBe  world. ;  Like  many  men's 
wives,the  good  lady  served  her  husband  as  a  stepping- 
stoneT/  I  had  scrambled  out  of  the  coach  and  was  in 
stinctively  settling  my  cravat,  when  somebody  brushed 
roughly  by  me,  and  I  heard  a  smart  thwack  upon  the 
coachman's  ear. 


MRS.   BULLFROG.  153 

"  Take  that,  you  villain !  "  cried  a  strange,  hoarse 
Foice.  "  You  have  ruined  me,  you  blackguard !  I 
shall  never  be  the  woman  I  have  been  !  " 

And  then  came  a  second  thwack,  aimed  at  the  dri 
ver's  other  ear ;  but  which  missed  it,  and  hit  him  on 
the  nose,  causing  a  terrible  effusion  of  blood.  Now, 
who  or  what  fearful  apparition  was  inflicting  this  pun 
ishment  on  the  poor^  fellow  remained  an  impenetrable 
mystery  to  me.  jThe  blows  were  given  by  a  person  of 
grisly  aspect,  wi!h"*a  head  almost  bald,  and  sunken 
cheeks,  apparently  of  the  feminine  gender,  though 
hardly  to  be  classed  in  the  gentler  sex.  There  being 
no  teeth  to  modulate  the  voice,  it  had  a  mumbled 
fierceness,  not  passionate,  but  stern,  which  absolutely 
made  rne  quiver  like  calfs-foot  jelly.  Who  could  the 
phantom Jje?  /The  most  awful  circumstance  of  the 
affair  is  yet  Iro  be  told :  for  this  ogre,  or  whatever  it 
was,  had  a  riding  habit  like  Mrs.  Bullfrog's,;  and  also 
a  green  s.ilk  Calash  dangling  down  her  back  by  the 
strings.  /  In  my  terror  and  turmoil  of  mind  I  could 
imagine  nothing  less  than  that  the  Old  Nick,  at  the 
moment  of  our  overturn,  had  annihilated  my  wife  and 
jumped  into  her  petticoats.  This  idea  seemed  the 
more  probable,  since  I  could  nowhere  perceive  Mrs. 
Bullfrog  alive,  nor,  though  I  looked  very  sharply  about 
the  coach,  could  I  detect  any  traces  of  that  beloved 
woman's  dead  body.  There  would  have  been  a  com 
fort  in  giving  her  Christian  burial. 

"  Come,  sir,  bestir  yourself  iTlelp  this  rascal  to  set 
up  the  coach,"  said  the  hobgoblin  to  me ;  then,  with 
a  terrific  screech  to  three  countrymen  at  a  distance, 
"Here,  you  fellows,  ain't  you  ashamed  to  stand  off 
tfhen  a  poor  woman  is  in  distress  ?  " 

The  countrymen,  instead  of  fleeing  for  their  lives, 


154  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

came  running  jit  full  speed,  and  laid  hold  of  the  topsy 
turvy  coach.  /I^also,  though  a  small-sized  man,  went 
to  work  like  ascm  of  Anak.  The  coachman,  too,  with 
the  blood  still  streaming  from  his  nose,  tugged  and 
toiled  most  manfully,  dreading,  doubtless,  that  the 
next  blow  might  break  his  head.  And  yet,  bemauled 
as  the  poor  fellow  had  been,  he  seemed  to  glance  at 
me  with  an  eye  of  pity,  as  if  my  case  were  more  de 
plorable  than  his.  fJBut  I  cherished  a  hope  that  all 
would  turn  out  a  dreSm,  and  seized  the  opportunity, 
as  we  raised  the  coach,  to  jam  two  of  my  fingers  j 
the  wheel,  trusting  that  the  pain  would  awaken 

"Why,  here  we  are,  all  to  rights  again !  "  exclaimed 
a  sweet  voice  behind.  "Thank  you  for  your  assist 
ance,  gentlemen.  My  dear  Mr.  Bullfrog,  how  you 
perspire  !  Do  let  me  wipe  your  face.  Don't  take  this 
little  accident  too  much  to  heart,  good  driver.  V?Ve 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  none  of  our  necks  are 
broken.^/ 

"  We  might  have  spared  one  neck  out  of  the  three," 
muttered  the  driverfrubbing  his  ear  and  pulling  his 
nose,  to  ascertain  whether  he  had  been  cuffed  or  not. 
yWhy,  the  woman  's  a  witchTJ 

I  fear  that  the  reader  will  not  believe,  yet  ft  is  posi 
tively  a  fact,  that  there  stood  Mrs.  Bullfrog^'  with  her 
glossy  ringlets  curling  on  her  brow,  and  two  rows  of 
orient  pearls  gleaming  bet^en  her  parted  lips,  which 
wore  a  most  angelic  smiLe^She  had  regained  her  rid 
ing  habit  and  calash  fromlRe*'^isly  phantom,  and  was, 
in  all  respects,  the  lovely  woman  who  had  been  sitting 
by  my  side  at  the  instant  of  our  overturn.  How  she 
had  happened  to  disappear,  and  who  had  supplied  her 
place,  and  whence  she  did  now  return,  were  problems 
too  knotty  for  me  to  solve.  There  stood  my  wifo  \j 


MRS.   BULLFROG.  155 

Hiat  was  the  one  thing  certain  among  a  heap  of  mys 
teries.  Nothing  remained  but  to  help  her^into  the 
coach,  and  plod  on,  through  the  journey  of  the  day  and 
the  journey  of  life,  as  comfortably  as  we  could.  As 
the  driver  closed  the  door  upon  us,  I  heard  him  whis 
per  to  the  three  countrymen,  — 

"  How  do  you  suppose  a  fellow  feels  shut  up  in  the 
cage  TYTthji  fihft  %QT>  ?  "- 

Of  course  this  query  could  have  no  reference  to  my 
situation.  Yet,  unreasonable  as  it  may  appear,  I  con 
fess  that  my  feelings  were  not  altogether  so  ecstatic  as 
when  I  first  called  Mrs.  Bullfrog  mine.  ^True,  she  was 
a  sweet  woman  and  an  angel  of  a  wife ;  but  what  if  a 
Gorgon  should  return,  amid  the  transports  of  our  con 
nubial  bliss,  and  take  the  angel's  place.  I  recollected 
the  tale  of  a  fairy,  who  half  the  time  was  a  beautiful 
woman  and  half  the  time  a  hideous  monster.  Had  I 
taken  that  very  fairy  to  be  the  wife  of  my  bosom  ? 
While  such  whims  and  chimeras  were  flitting  across 
my  fancy  I  began  to  look  askance  at  Mrs.  Bullfrog, 
almost  expecting  that  the  transformation  would  be 
wrought  before  my  eyes. 

To  divert  my  mind,  I  took  up  the  newspaper  which 
had  covered  the  little  basket  of  refreshmentsfancl  which 
now  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  coach,  blushing  with  a 
deep-red  stain  and  emitting  a  potent  spirituous  fume 
from  the  contents  of  the  broken  bottle  of  Kalydor7\ 
The  paper  was  two  or  three  years  old,  but  containea 
an  article  of  several  columns,  in  which  I  soon  grew 
wonderfully  interested.  It  was  the  report  of  a  trial  for 
breach  of  promise  of  marriage,  giving  the  testimony 
in  full,  with  fervid  extracts  from  both  the  gentleman's 
and  lady's  amatory  correspondence.  The  deserted 
damsel  had  personally  appeared  in  court,  and  had 


156  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

borne  energetic  evidence  to  her  lover's  perfidy  and  the 
strength  of  her  blighted  affections.  On  the  defend 
ant's  part  there  had  been  an  attempt,  though  insuffi 
ciently  sustained,  to  blast  the  plaintiff's  character,  and 
a  plea,  in  mitigation  of  damages,  on  account  of  her 
unamiable  temper.  A  horrible  idea  was  suggested  by 
the  lady's  name. 

"  Madam,"  said  I,  holding  the  newspaper  before 
Mrs.  Bullfrog's  eyes,  —  and,  though  a  small,  delicate, 
and  thin-visaged  man,  I  feel  assured  that  I  looked 
very  terrific,  — "  madam,"  repeated  I,  through  my 
shut  teeth,  "  were  you  the  plaintiff  in  this  cause  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  replied  my  wife, 
sweetly,  "  I  thought  all  the  world  knew  that !  " 

"  Horror  !  horror  !  "  exclaimed  I,  sinking  back  on 

^Covering  my  face  with  both  hands,  I  emitted  a  deep 
anct  deathlike  groan,  as  if  my  tormented  soul  were 
rending  me  asunder  —  I,  the  most  exquisitely  fastid 
ious  of  men,  and  whose  wife  was  to  have  been  the 
most  delicate  and  refined  of  women,  with  all  the 
fresh  dew-drops  glittering  on  her  virgin  rosebud  of 
a  heart ! 

I  thought  of  the  glossy  ringlets  and  pearly  teeth ;  I 
thought  of  the  Kalydor  ;  I  thought  of  the  coachman's 
bruised  ear  and  bloody  nose  ;  I  thought  of  the  tender 
love  secrets  which  she  had  whispered  to  the  judge  and 
jury  and  a  thousand  tittering  auditors,  —  and  gave 
another  groan  !> 

"  Mr.  Buflfrbg,"  said  my  wife. 

As  I  made  no  reply,  she  gently  took  my  hands 
within  her  own,  removed  them  from  my  face,  and  fixed 
her  eyes  steadfastly  011  mine. 

"Mr.  Bullfrog,"  said  she,  not  unkindly,  yet  with  all 


MRS.  BULLFROG.  157 

the  decision  of  her  strong  character,  "let  me  advise 
you  to  overcome  this  foolish  weakness,  and  prove  your 
self,  to  the  best  of  your  ability,  as  good  a  husband  ji£ 
I  will  be  a  wife.  You  have  discovered,  perhaps,  some 
little  imperfections  in  your  bride.  Well,  what  did 
you  expect?  Women  are  not  angels.  If  they  were, 
they  would  go  to  heaven  for  husbands  ;  or,  at  least,  be 
more  difficult  in  their  choice  on  earth." 

"  But  why  conceal  those  imperfections  ?  "  interposed 
I,  ta^mulously. 

^Now,  my  love,  are  not  you  a  most  unreasonable 
littlejman  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  patting  me  on  the 
cheekj  "  Ought  a  woman  to  disclose  her  frailties  ear 
lier  than  the  wedding  day  ?  Few  husbands,  I  assure 
you,  make  the  discovery  in  such  good  season,  and  still 
fewer  complain  that  these  trifles  are  concealed  too 
long.  s^ell,  what  a  strange  man  you  are  !  Poh  I  yon 
are  joking;^ 

"  But  line  suit  for  breach  of  promise !  "  groaned  I. 

"  Ah,  and  is  that  the  rub  ?  "  exclaimed  my  wife. 
"  Is  it  possible  that  you  view  that  affair  in  an  objec 
tionable  light?  *Mr.  Bullfrog,  I  never  could  have 
dreamed  it!  Ts^tFan  objection  that  I  have  trium 
phantly  defended  myself  against  slander  and  vindicated 
my  purity  in  a  court  of  justice  ?  Orylo  you  complain 
because  your  wife  has  shown  the*"proper  spirit  of  a 
woman,  and  punished  the  villain  who  trifled  with  her 
jtions?" 

But,"  persisted  I,  shrinking  into  a  corner  of  the 
coacn7  however,  —  for  I  did  not  know  precisely  how 
much  contradiction  the  proper  spirit  of  a  woman 
wxmld  endure,  |— "  but,  my  love,  would  it  not  have 
been  more  digmfied  to  treat  the  villain  with  the  silent 
contempt  he  merited  ?  " 


158          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD   MANSE. 

"  That  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  said  my  wife, 
slyly ;  "  but,  in  that  case,  where  would  have  been  the 
five  thousand  dollars  which  are  to  stock  your  dry 
goods  store?" 

"Mrs.  Bullfrog,  upon  your  honor,"  demanded  I,  as 
if  my  life  hung  upon  her  words,  "  is  there  no  mistake 
about  those  five  thousand  dollars  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor  there  is  none,"  replied 
she.  "  The  jury  gave  me  every  cent  the  rascal  had ; 
and  I  have  kept  it  all  for  my  dear  Bullfrog." 

"  Then,  thou  dear  woman,"  cried-  4^-with  an  over 
whelming  gush  of  tenderness,  "  let  me  fold  thee  to 
my  heart.  ^The  basis  of  matrimonial  bliss  is  secure* 
and  all  thy  little  defects  and  frailties  are  forgiven* 
Nay,  since  the  result  has  been  so  fortunate,  I  rejoice 
at  the  wrongs  which  drove  theje  to  this  blessed  law- 
suit.  Happy  Bullfrog  that  I  am !'*? 


FIRE   WORSHIP. 

IT  is  a  great  revolution  in  social  and  domestic  life, 
and  no  less  so  in  the  life  of  a  secluded  student,  this 
almost  universal  exchange  of  the  open  fireplace  for 
the  cheerless  and  ungenial  stove.  On  such  a  morning 
as  now  lowers  around  our  old  gray  parsonage  I  miss 
the  bright  face  of  my  ancient  friend,  who  was  wont  to 
dance  upon  the  hearth  and  play  the  part  of  more 
familiar  sunshine.  It  is  sad  to  turn  from  the  cloudy 
sky  and  sombre  landscape  ;  from  yonder  hill,  with  its 
crown  of  rusty,  black  pines,  the  foliage  of  which  is  so 
dismal  in  the  absence  of  the  sun  ;  that  bleak  pasture 
land,  and  the  broken  surface  of  the  potato  field,  with 
the  brown  clods  partly  concealed  by  the  snow  fall  of 
last  night ;  the  swollen  and  sluggish  river,  with  ice- 
incrusted  borders,  dragging  its  bluish-gray  stream 
along  the  verge  of  our  orchard  like  a  snake  half  tor 
pid  with  the  cold,  —  it  is  sad  to  turn  from  an  outward 
scene  of  so  little  comfort  and  find  the  same  sullen  in 
fluences  brooding  within  the  precincts  of  my  study. 
Where  is  that  brilliant  guest,  that  quick  and  subtle 
spirit,  whom  Prometheus  lured  from  heaven  to  civilize 
mankind  and  cheer  them  in  their  wintry  desolation  — 
that  comfortable  inmate,  whose  smile,  during  eight 
months  of  the  year,  was  our  sufficient  consolation  for 
summer's  lingering  advance  and  early  flight  ?  Alas  ! 
blindly  inhospitable,  grudging  the  food  that  kept  him 
cheery  and  mercurial,  we  have  thrust  him  into  an  iron 
prison,  and  compel  him  to  smoulder  away  his  life  on  a 


160          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

daily  pittance  which  once  would  have  been  too  scanty 
for  his  breakfast.  Without  a  metaphor,  we  now  make 
our  fire  in  an  air-tight  stove,  and  supply  it  with  some 
half  a  dozen  sticks  of  wood  between  dawn  and  night 
fall. 

I  never  shall  be  reconciled  to  this  enormity.  Truly 
may  it  be  said  that  the  world  looks  darker  for  it.  In 
one  way  or  another,  here  and  there  and  all  around  us, 
the  inventions  of  mankind  are  fast  blotting  the  pict 
uresque,  the  poetic,  and  the  beautiful  out  of  human 
life.  The  domestic  fire  was  a  type  of  all  these  attri 
butes,  and  seemed  to  bring  might  and  majesty,  and 
wild  Nature  and  a  spiritual  essence  into  our  inmost 
home,  and  yet  to  dwell  with  us  in  such  friendliness 
that  its  mysteries  and  marvels  excited  no  dismay.  The 
same  mild  companion  that  smiled  so  placidly  in  our 
faces  was  he  that  comes  roaring  out  of  .ZEtna  and 
rushes  madly  up  the  sky  like  a  fiend  breaking  loose 
from  torment  and  fighting  for  a  place  among  the  upper 
angels.  He  it  is,  too,  that  leaps  from  cloud  to  cloud 
amid  the  crashing  thunder  storm.  It  was  he  whom 
the  Gheber  worshipped  with  no  unnatural  idolatry  •, 
and  it  was  he  who  devoured  London  and  Moscow  and 
many  another  famous  city ;  and  who  loves  to  riot 
through  our  own  dark  forests  and  sweep  across  our 
prairies,  and  to  whose  ravenous  maw,  it  is  said,  the 
universe  shall  one  day  be  given  as  a  final  feast.  Mean 
while  he  is  the  great  artisan  and  laborer  by  whose  aid 
men  are  enabled  to  build  a  world  within  a  world,  or, 
at  least,  to  smooth  down  the  rough  creation  which 
Nature  flung  to  us.  He  forges  the  mighty  anchor  and 
every  lesser  instrument ;  he  drives  the  steamboat  and 
drags  the  rail-car ;  and  it  was  he  —  this  creature  of 
terrible  might,  and  so  many-sided  utility  and  all-comr 


FIRE    WORSHIP.  161 

prehensive  destructiveness  —  that  used  to  be  the  cheer- 
ful,  homely  friend  of  our  wintry  days,  and  whom  we 
have  made  the  prisoner  of  this  iron  cage. 

How  kindly  he  was !  and,  though  the  tremendous 
agent  of  change,  yet  bearing  himself  with  such  gentle 
ness,  so  rendering  himself  a  part  of  all  lifelong  and 
age-coeval  associations,  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were 
the  great  conservative  of  Nature.  While  a  man  was 
true  to  the  fireside,  so  long  would  he  be  true  to  country 
and  law,  to  the  God  whom  his  fathers  worshipped,  to 
the  wife  of  his  youth,  and  to  all  things  else  which  in 
stinct  or  religion  has  taught  us  to  consider  sacred. 
With  how  sweet  humility  did  this  elemental  spirit  per 
form  all  needful  offices  for  the  household  in  which  he 
was  domesticated  !  He  was  equal  to  the  concoction  of 
a  grand  dinner,  yet  scorned  not  to  roast  a  potato  or 
toast  a  bit  of  cheese.  How  humanely  did  he  cherish 
the  school-boy's  icy  fingers,  and  thaw  the  old  man's 
joints  with  a  genial  warmth  which  almost  equalled  the 
glow  of  youth !  And  how  carefully  did  he  dry  the 
cow-hide  boots  that  had  trudged  through  mud  and 
snow,  and  the  shaggy  outside  garment  stiff  with  frozen 
sleet !  taking  heed,  likewise,  to  the  comfort  of  the 
faithful  dog  who  had  followed  his  master  through  the 
storm.  When  did  he  refuse  a  coal  to  light  a  pipe,  or 
even  a  part  of  his  own  substance  to  kindle  a  neighbor's 
fire  ?  And  then  at  twilight,  when  laborer,  or  scholar, 
or  mortal  of  whatever  age,  sex,  or  degree,  drew  a  chair 
beside  him  and  looked  into  his  glowing  face,  how 
acute,  how  profound,  how  comprehensive  was  his  sym 
pathy  with  the  mood  of  each  and  all !  He  pictured 
forth  their  very  thoughts.  To  the  youthful  he  showed 
the  scenes  of  the  adventurous  life  before  them ;  to  the 
aged  the  shadows  of  departed  love  and  hope ;  and  if 

VOL.  II.  11 


162          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

all  earthly  things  had  grown  distasteful,  he  could  glad: 
den  the  fireside  muser  with  golden  glimpses  of  a  better 
world.  And,  amid  this  varied  communion  with  the 
human  soul,  how  busily  would  the  sympathizer,  the 
deep  moralist,  the  painter  of  magic  pictures  be  caus 
ing  the  teakettle  to  boil ! 

Nor  did  it  lessen  the  charm  of  his  soft,  familiar 
courtesy  and  helpfulness  that  the  mighty  spirit,  were 
opportunity  offered  him,  would  run  riot  through  the 
peaceful  house,  wrap  its  inmates  in  his  terrible  em 
brace,  and  leave  nothing  of  them  save  their  whitened 
bones.  This  possibility  of  mad  destruction  only  made 
his  domestic  kindness  the  more  beautiful  and  touch 
ing.  It  was  so  sweet  of  him,  being  endowed  with  such 
power,  to  dwell  day  after  day,  and  one  long  lonesome 
night  after  another,  on  the  dusky  hearth,  only  now  and 
then  betraying  his  wild  nature  by  thrusting  his  red 
tongue  out  of  the  chimney  top !  True,  he  had  done 
much  mischief  in  the  world,  and  was  pretty  certain  to 
do  more  ;  but  his  warm  heart  atoned  for  all.  He  was 
kindly  to  the  race  of  man;  and  they  pardoned  his 
characteristic  imperfections. 

The  good  old  clergyman,  my  predecessor  in  this 
mansion,  was  well  acquainted  with  the  comforts  of  the 
fireside.  His  yearly  allowance  of  wood,  according  to 
the  terms  of  his  settlement,  was  no  less  than  sixty 
cords.  Almost  an  annual  forest  was  converted  from 
sound  oak  logs  into  ashes,  in  the  kitchen,  the  parlor, 
and  this  little  study,  where  now  an  unworthy  successor, 
not  in  the  pastoral  office,  but  merely  in  his  earthly 
abode,  sits  scribbling  beside  an  air-tight  stove.  I  love 
to  fancy  one  of  those  fireside  days  while  the  good  manf 
a  contemporary  of  the  Kevolution,  was  in  his  early 
prime,  some  five  and  sixty  years  ago.  Before  sunrise 


FIRE    WORSHIP.  163 

doubtless,  the  blaze  hovered  upon  the  gray  skirts  of 
night  and  dissolved  the  frostwork  that  had  gathered 
like  a  curtain  over  the  small  window  panes.  There  is 
something  peculiar  in  the  aspect  of  the  morning  fire 
side  :  a  fresher,  brisker  glare ;  the  absence  of  that 
mellowness  which  can  be  produced  only  by  half -con 
sumed  logs,  and  shapeless  brands  with  the  white  ashes 
on  them,  and  mighty  coals,  the  remnant  of  tree  trunks 
that  the  hungry  elements  have  gnawed  for  hours.  The 
morning  hearth,  too,  is  newly  swept,  and  the  brazen 
andirons  well  brightened,  so  that  the  cheerful  fire  may 
see  its  face  in  them.  Surely  it  was  happiness,  when 
the  pastor,  fortified  with  a  substantial  breakfast,  sat 
down  in  his  arm-chair  and  slippers  and  opened  the 
Whole  Body  of  Divinity,  or  the  Commentary  on  Job, 
or  whichever  of  his  old  folios  or  quartos  might  fall 
within  the  range  of  his  weekly  sermons.  It  must  have 
been  his  own  fault  if  the  warmth  and  glow  of  this 
abundant  hearth  did  not  permeate  the  discourse  and 
keep  his  audience  comfortable  in  spite  of  the  bitterest 
northern  blast  that  ever  wrestled  with  the  church  stee 
ple.  He  reads  while  the  heat  warps  the  stiff  covers  of 
the  volume ;  he  writes  without  numbness  either  in  his 
heart  or  fingers  ;  and,  with  unstinted  hand,  he  throws 
fresh  sticks  of  wood  upon  the  fire. 

A  parishioner  comes  in.  With  what  warmth  of  be 
nevolence  —  how  should  he  be  otherwise  than  warm  in 
any  of  his  attributes?  —  does  the  minister  bid  him 
welcome,  and  set  a  chair  for  him  in  so  close  proximity 
to  the  hearth  that  soon  the  guest  finds  it  needful  to 
rub  his  scorched  shins  with  his  great  red  hands !  The 
melted  snow  drips  from  his  steaming  boots  and  bub 
bles  upon  the  hearth.  His  puckered  forehead  unravels 
its  entanglement  of  criss-cross  wrinkles.  We  lose  much 


164          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

of  the  enjoyment  of  fireside  heat  without  such  an  op 
portunity  of  marking  its  genial  effect  upon  those  who 
have  been  looking  the  inclement  weather  in  the  face. 
In  the  course  of  the  day  our  clergyman  himself  strides 
forth,  perchance  to  pay  a  round  of  pastoral  visits ;  or, 
it  may  be,  to  visit  his  mountain  of  a  wood-pile  and 
cleave  the  monstrous  logs  into  billets  suitable  for  the 
fire.  He  returns  with  fresher  life  to  his  beloved  hearth. 
During  the  short  afternoon  the  western  sunshine  comes 
into  the  study  and  strives  to  stare  the  ruddy  blaze  out 
of  countenance,  but  with  only  a  brief  triumph,  soon  to 
be  succeeded  by  brighter  glories  of  its  rival.  Beauti 
ful  it  is  to  see  the  strengthening  gleam,  the  deepening 
light  that  gradually  casts  distinct  shadows  of  the  hu 
man  figure,  the  table,  and  the  high-backed  chairs  upon 
the  opposite  wall,  and  at  length,  as  twilight  comes  on, 
replenishes  the  room  with  living  radiance  and  makes 
life  all  rose  color.  Afar  the  wayfarer  discerns  the 
flickering  flame  as  it  dances  upon  the  windows,  and 
hails  it  as  a  beacon  light  of  humanity,  reminding  him, 
in  his  cold  and  lonely  path,  that  the  world  is  not  all 
snow  and  solitude  and  desolation.  At  eventide,  prob 
ably,  the  study  was  peopled  with  the  clergyman's  wife 
and  family,  and  children  tumbled  themselves  upon  the 
hearth  rug,  and  grave  puss  sat  with  her  back  to  the 
fire,  or  gazed,  with  a  semblance  of  human  meditation, 
into  its  fervid  depths.  Seasonably  the  plenteous  ashes 
of  the  day  were  raked  over  the  mouldering  brands,  and 
from  the  heap  came  jets  of  flame,  and  an  incense  of 
nightlong  smoke  creeping  quietly  up  the  chimney. 

Heaven  forgive  the  old  clergyman!  In  his  later 
life,  when  for  almost  ninety  winters  he  had  been  glad 
dened  by  the  firelight,  —  when  it  had  gleamed  upon 
him  from  infancy  to  extreme  age,  and  never  without 


FIRE   WORSHIP.  165 

brightening  his  spirits  as  well  as  his  visage,  and  per 
haps  keeping  him  alive  so  long,  —  he  had  the  heart  to 
brick  up  his  chimney-place  and  bid  farewell  to  the  face 
of  his  old  friend  forever,  why  did  he  not  take  an  eter 
nal  leave  of  the  sunshine  too  ?  His  sixty  cords  of  wood 
had  probably  dwindled  to  a  far  less  ample  supply  in 
modern  times ;  and  it  is  certain  that  the  parsonage 
had  grown  crazy  with  time  and  tempest  and  pervious 
to  the  cold ;  but  still  it  was  one  of  the  saddest  tokens 
of  the  decline  and  fall  of  open  fireplaces  that  the  gray 
patriarch  should  have  deigned  to  warm  himself  at  an 
air-tight  stove. 

And  I,  likewise,  —  who  have  found  a  home  in  this 
•ancient  owl's  nest  since  its  former  occupant  took  his 
heavenward  flight,  —  I,  to  my  shame,  have  put  up 
stoves  in  kitchen  and  parlor  and  chamber.  Wander 
where  you  will  about  the  house,  not  a  glimpse  of  the 
earth-born,  heaven-aspiring  fiend  of  ^Etna,  —  him  that 
sports  in  the  thunder  storm,  the  idol  of  the  Ghebers, 
the  devourer  of  cities,  the  forest  rioter  and  prairie 
sweeper,  the  future  destroyer  of  our  earth,  the  old 
chimney-corner  companion  who  mingled  himself  so 
sociably  with  household  joys  and  sorrows,  —  not  a 
glimpse  of  this  mighty  and  kindly  one  will  greet  your 
eyes.  He  is  now  an  invisible  presence.  There  is  his 
iron  cage.  Touch  it  and  he  scorches  your  fingers.  He 
delights  to  singe  a  garment  or  perpetrate  any  other  lit 
tle  unworthy  mischief ;  for  his  temper  is  ruined  by  the 
ingratitude  of  mankind,  for  whom  he  cherished  such 
warmth  of  feeling,  and  to  whom  he  taught  all  their 
arts,  even  that  of  making  his  own  prison  house.  Ii> 
his  fits  of  rage  he  puffs  volumes  of  smoke  and  noisome 
gas  through  the  crevices  of  the  door,  and  shakes  the 
iron  walls  of  his  dungeon  so  as  to  overthrow  the  orna- 


166          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

mental  urn  upon  its  summit.  We  tremble  lest  he 
should  break  forth  amongst  us.  Much  of  his  time  is 
spent  in  sighs,  burdened  with  unutterable  grief,  and 
long  drawn  through  the  funnel.  He  amuses  himself, 
too,  with  repeating  all  the  whispers,  the  moans,  and 
the  louder  utterances  or  tempestuous  howls  of  the 
wind ;  so  that  the  stove  becomes  a  microcosm  of  the 
aerial  world.  Occasionally  there  are  strange  combi 
nations  of  sounds,  —  voices  talking  almost  articulately 
within  the  hollow  chest  of  iron,  —  insomuch  that  f  anc}r 
beguiles  me  with  the  idea  that  my  firewood  must  have 
grown  in  that  infernal  forest  of  lamentable  trees  which 
breathed  their  complaints  to  Dante.  When  the  list 
ener  is  half  asleep  he  may  readily  take  these  voices 
for  the  conversation  of  spirits  and  assign  them  an  in 
telligible  meaning.  Anon  there  is  a  pattering  noise, 
—  drip,  drip,  drip,  —  as  if  a  summer  shower  were  fall 
ing  within  the  narrow  circumference  of  the  stove. 

These  barren  and  tedious  eccentricities  are  all  that 
the  air-tight  stove  can  bestow  in  exchange  for  the  in 
valuable  moral  influences  which  we  have  lost  by  our 
desertion  of  the  open  fireplace.  Alas !  is  this  world 
so  very  bright  that  we  can  afford  to  choke  up  such  a 
domestic  fountain  of  gladsomeness,  and  sit  down  by 
its  darkened  source  without  being  conscious  of  a 
gloom  ? 

It  is  my  belief  that  social  intercourse  cannot  long 
continue  what  it  has  been,  now  that  we  have  sub 
tracted  from  it  so  important  and  vivifying  an  element 
as  firelight.  The  effects  will  be  more  perceptible  on 
our  children  and  the  generations  that  shall  succeed 
them  than  on  ourselves,  the  mechanism  of  whose  life 
may  remain  unchanged,  though  its  spirit  be  far  other 
than  it  was.  The  sacred  trust  of  the  household  fire 


FIRE    WORSHIP.  167 

has  been  transmitted  in  unbroken  succession  from  the 
earliest  ages  and  faithfully  cherished  in  spite  of  ever^ 
discouragement,  such  as  the  curfew  law  of  the  Norman 
conquerors,  until  in  these  evil  days  physical  science 
has  nearly  succeeded  in  extinguishing  it.  But  we  at 
least  have  our  youthful  recollections  tinged  with  the 
glow  of  the  hearth,  and  our  lifelong  habits  and  asso 
ciations  arranged  on  the  principle  of  a  mutual  bond 
in  the  domestic  fire.  Therefore,  though  the  sociable 
friend  be  forever  departed,  yet  in  a  degree  he  will  be 
spiritually  present  with  us ;  and  still  more  will  the 
empty  forms  which  were  once  full  of  his  rejoicing 
presence  continue  to  rule  our  manners.  We  shall 
draw  our  chairs  together  as  we  and  our  forefathers 
have  been  wont  for  thousands  of  years  back,  and  sit 
around  some  blank  and  empty  corner  of  the  room, 
babbling  with  unreal  cheerfulness  of  topics  suitable  to 
the  homely  fireside.  A  warmth  from  the  past  —  from 
the  ashes  of  by-gone  years  and  the  raked-up  embers 
of  long  ago  —  will  sometimes  thaw  the  ice  about  our 
hearts ;  but  it  must  be  otherwise  with  our  successors. 
On  the  most  favorable  supposition,  they  will  be  ac 
quainted  with  the  fireside  in  no  better  shape  than  that 
of  the  sullen  stove  ;  and  more  probably  they  will  have 
grown  up  amid  furnace  heat  in  houses  which  might  be 
fancied  to  have  their  foundation  over  the  infernal  pit, 
whence  sulphurous  steams  and  unbreathable  exhala 
tions  ascend  through  the  apertures  of  the  floor.  There 
will  be  nothing  to  attract  these  poor  children  to  one 
centre.  They  will  never  behold  one  another  through 
fchat  peculiar  medium  of  vision  —  the  ruddy  gleam  of 
blazing  wood  or  bituminous  coal  —  which  gives  the 
human  spirit  so  deep  an  insight  into  its  fellows  and 
melts  all  humanity  into  one  cordial  heart  of  hearts 


168          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Domestic  life,  if  it  may  still  be  termed  domestic,  will 
seek  its  separate  corners,  and  never  gather  itself  into 
groups.  The  easy  gossip  ;  the  merry  yet  unambitious 
jest ;  the  lifelike,  practical  discussion  of  real  matters 
in  a  casual  way ;  the  soul  of  truth  which  is  so  often 
incarnated  in  a  simple  fireside  word,  —  will  disappear 
from  earth.  Conversation  will  contract  the  air  of  de 
bate  and  all  mortal  intercourse  be  chilled  with  a  fatal 
frost. 

In  classic  tunes,  the  exhortation  to  fight  "  pro  aris 
et  focis,"  for  the  altars  and  the  hearths,  was  consid 
ered  the  strongest  appeal  that  could  be  made  to  patri 
otism.  And  it  seemed  an  immortal  utterance  ;  for  all 
subsequent  ages  and  people  have  acknowledged  its 
•force  and  responded  to  it  with  the  full  portion  of  man 
hood  that  Nature  had  assigned  to  each.  Wisely  were 
the  altar  and  the  hearth  conjoined  in  one  mighty  sen 
tence  ;  for  the  hearth,  too,  had  its  kindred  sanctity. 
Religion  sat  down  beside  it,  not  in  the  priestly  robes 
which  decorated  and  perhaps  disguised  her  at  the 
altar,  but  arrayed  in  a  simple  matron's  garb,  and  ut 
tering  her  lessons  with  the  tenderness  of  a  mother's 
voice  and  heart.  The  holy  hearth!  If  any  earthly 
and  material  thing,  or  rather  a  divine  idea  embodied 
in  brick  and  mortar,  might  be  supposed  to  possess  the 
permanence  of  moral  truth,  it  was  this.  All  revered 
it.  The  man  who  did  not  put  off  his  shoes  upon  this 
holy  ground  would  have  deemed  it  pastime  to  trample 
upon  the  altar.  It  has  been  our  task  to  uproot  the 
hearth.  What  further  reform  is  left  for  our  children 
to  achieve,  unless  they  overthrow  the  altar  too  ?  And 
by  what  appeal  hereafter,  when  the  breath  of  hostile 
armies  may  mingle  with  the  poor,  cold  breezes  of  otu 
Country,  shall  we  attempt  to  rouse  up  native  valor? 


FIRE    WORSHIP.  169 

Fight  for  your  hearths  ?  There  will  be  none  through 
out  the  land.  FIGHT  FOR  YOUR  STOVES  !  Not  I,  in 
faith.  If  in  such  a  cause  I  strike  a  blow,  it  shall  be 
on  the  invader's  part ;  and  Heaven  grant  that  it  may 
shatter  the  abomination  all  to  pieces. 


BUDS  AND  BIRD  VOICES. 

BALMY  Spring  —  weeks  later  than  we  expected  and 
months  later  than  we  longed  for  her  —  comes  at  last 
to  revive  the  moss  on  the  roof  and  walls  of  our  old 
mansion.  She  peeps  brightly  into  my  study  window, 
inviting  me  to  throw  it  open  and  create  a  summer  at 
mosphere  by  the  intermixture  of  her  genial  breath 
with  the  black  and  cheerless  comfort  of  the  stove.  As 
the  casement  ascends,  forth  into  infinite  space  fly  the 
innumerable  forms  of  thought  or  fancy  that  have  kept 
me  company  in  the  retirement  of  this  little  chamber 
during  the  sluggish  lapse  of  wintry  weather ;  visions, 
gay,  grotesque,  and  sad ;  pictures  of  real  life,  tinted 
with  Nature's  homely  gray  and  russet ;  scenes  in  dream 
land  bedizened  with  rainbow  hues  which  faded  before 
they  were  well  laid  on,  all  these  may  vanish  now,  and 
leave  me  to  mould  a  fresh  existence  out  of  sunshine. 
Brooding  Meditation  may  flap  her  dusky  wings  and 
take  her  owl-like  flight,  blinking  amid  the  cheerful 
ness  of  noontide.  Such  companions  befit  the  season 
of  frosted  window  panes  and  crackling  fires,  when  the 
blast  howls  through  the  black  ash-trees  of  our  avenue 
and  the  drifting  snow-storm  chokes  up  the  woodpaths 
and  fills  the  highway  from  stone-wall  to  stone-wall, 
In  the  spring  and  summer  time  all  sombre  thoughts 
should  follow  the  winter  northward  with  the  sombre 
and  thoughtful  crows.  The  old  paradisiacal  economy 
of  life  is  again  in  force ;  we  live,  not  to  think  or  to 
labor,  but  for  the  simple  end  of  being  happy.  Noth- 


BUDS  AND  BIRD   VOICES.  171 

mg  for  the  present  hour  is  worthy  of  man's  infinite 
capacity  save  to  imbibe  the  warm  smile  of  heaven  and 
Bvmpathize  with  the  reviving  earth. 

The  present  Spring  comes  onward  with  fleeter  foot 
steps,  because  Winter  lingered  so  unconscionably  long 
that  with  her  best  diligence  she  can  hardly  retrieve 
half  the  allotted  period  of  her  reign.  It  is  but  a  fort 
night  since  I  stood  on  the  brink  of  our  swollen  river 
and  beheld  the  accumulated  ice  of  four  frozen  months 
go  down  the  stream.  Except  in  streaks  here  and 
there  upon  the  hill-sides,  the  whole  visible  universe  was 
then  covered  with  deep  snow,  the  nethermost  layer  of 
which  had  been  deposited  by  an  early  December  storm. 
It  was  a  sight  to  make  the  beholder  torpid,  in  the  im 
possibility  of  imagining  how  this  vast  white  napkin  was 
to  be  removed  from  the  face  of  the  corpse-like  world 
in  less  time  than  had  been  required  to  spread  it  there. 
But  who  can  estimate  the  power  of  gentle  influences, 
whether  amid  material  desolation  or  the  moral  winter 
of  man's  heart?  There  have  been  no  tempestuous 
vains,  even  no  sultry  days,  but  a  constant  breath  of 
southern  winds,  with  now  a  day  of  kindly  sunshine  and 
now  a  no  less  kindly  mist,  or  a  soft  descent  of  showers, 
in  which  a  smile  and  a  blessing  seemed  to  have  been 
steeped.  The  snow  has  vanished  as  if  by  magic ; 
whatever  heaps  may  be  hidden  in  the  woods  and  deep 
gorges  of  the  hills,  only  two  solitary  specks  remain 
in  the  landscape ;  and  those  I  shall  almost  regret  to 
miss  when  to-morrow  I  look  for  them  in  vain.  Never* 
before,  methinks,  has  spring  pressed  so  closely  on  the 
footsteps  of  retreating  winter.  Along  the  roadside  the 
green  blades  of  grass  have  sprouted  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  snow-drifts.  The  pastures  and  mowing  fields 
$iave  not  yet  assumed  a  general  aspect  of  verdure  ;  but 


172  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

neither  have  they  the  cheerless  brown  tint  which  they 
wear  in  latter  autumn  when  vegetation  has  entirely 
ceased  ;  there  is  now  a  faint  shadow  of  life,  gradually 
brightening  into  the  warm  reality.  Some  tracts  in 
a  happy  exposure,  —  as,  for  instance,  yonder  south 
western  slope  of  an  orchard,  in  front  of  that  old  red 
farm-house  beyond  the  river,  —  such  patches  of  land 
already  wear  a  beautiful  and  tender  green,  to  which  no 
future  luxuriance  can  add  a  charm.  It  looks  unreal ; 
a  prophecy,  a  hope,  a  transitory  effect  of  some  peculiar 
light,  which  will  vanish  with  the  slightest  motion  of 
the  eye.  But  beauty  is  never  a  delusion  ;  not  these 
verdant  tracts,  but  the  dark  and  barren  landscape  all 
around  them,  is  a  shadow  and  a  dream.  Each  moment 
wins  some  portion  of  the  earth  from  death  to  life  ;  a 
sudden  gleam  of  verdure  brightens  along  the  sunny 
slope  of  a  bank  which  an  instant  ago  was  brown  and 
bare.  You  look  again,  and  behold  an  apparition  of 
green  grass ! 

The  trees  in  our  orchard  and  elsewhere  are  as  yet 
naked,  but  already  appear  full  of  life  and  vegetable 
blood.  It  seems  as  if  by  one  magic  touch  they  might 
instantaneously  burst  into  full  foliage,  and  that  the 
wind  which  now  sighs  through  their  naked  branches 
might  make  sudden  music  amid  innumerable  leaves. 
The  mossgrown  willow-tree,  which  for  forty  years 
past  has  overshadowed  these  western  windows,  will 
be  among  the  first  to  put  on  its  green  attire.  There 
are  some  objections  to  the  willow ;  it  is  not  a  dry  and 
cleanly  tree,  and  impresses  the  beholder  with  an  asso 
ciation  of  sliminess.  No  trees,  I  think,  are  perfectly 
agreeable  as  companions  unless  they  have  glossy 
leaves,  dry  bark,  and  a  firm  and  hard  texture  of  trunk 
and  branches.  But  the  willow  is  almost  the  earliest  to 


BUDS  AND  BIRD    VOICES.  173 

gladden  us  with  the  promise  and  reality  of  beauty  in 
its  graceful  and  delicate  foliage,  and  the  last  to  scat 
ter  its  yellow,  yet  scarcely  withered,  leaves,  upon  the 
ground.  All  through  the  winter,  too,  its  yellow  twigs 
give  it  a  sunny  aspect,  which  is  not  without  a  cheer 
ing  influence,  even  in  the  grayest  and  gloomiest  day. 
Beneath  a  clouded  sky  it  faithfully  remembers  the  sun 
shine.  Our  old  house  would  lose  a  charm  were  the 
willow  to  be  cut  down,  with  its  golden  crown  over  the 
snow-covered  roof  and  its  heap  of  summer  verdure. 

The  lilac  shrubs  under  my  study  window  are  like 
wise  almost  in  leaf:  in  two  or  three  days  more  I  may 
put  forth  my  hand  and  pluck  the  topmost  bough  in  its 
freshest  green.  These  lilacs  are  very  aged,  and  have 
lost  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  their  prime.  The  heart, 
or  the  judgment,  or  the  moral  sense,  or  the  taste  is 
dissatisfied  with  their  present  aspect.  Old  age  is  not 
venerable  when  it  embodies  itself  in  lilacs,  rose  bushes, 
or  any  other  ornamental  shrub ;  it  seems  as  if  such 
plants,  as  they  grow  only  for  beauty,  ought  to  flourish 
always  in  immortal  youth,  or,  at  least,  to  die  before 
their  sad  decrepitude.  Trees  of  beauty  are  trees  of 
paradise,  and  therefore  not  subject  to  decay  by  their 
original  nature,  though  they  have  lost  that  precious 
birthright  by  being  transplanted  to  an  earthly  soil. 
There  is  a  kind  of  ludicrous  unfitness  in  the  idea  of  a 
time-stricken  and  grandf  atherly  lilac  bush.  The  anal 
ogy  holds  good  in  human  life.  Persons  who  can  only 
be  graceful  and  ornamental  —  who  can  give  the  world 
nothing  but  flowers  —  should  die  young,  and  never  be 
seen  with  gray  hair  and  wrinkles,  any  more  than  the 
flower  shrubs  with  mossy  bark  and  blighted  foliage, 
like  the  lilacs  under  my  window.  Not  that  beauty  is 
worthy  of  less  than  immortality;  no,  the  beautiful 


174  MOSSES  FROM  AN    OLD  MANSE. 

should  live  forever  —  and  thence,  perhaps,  the  sense  of 
impropriety  when  we  see  it  triumphed  over  by  time. 
Apple-trees,  on  the  other  hand,  grow  old  without  re 
proach.  Let  them  live  as  long  as  they  may,  and  con 
tort  themselves  into  whatever  perversity  of  shape  they 
please,  and  deck  their  withered  limbs  with  a  spring 
time  gaudiness  of  pink  blossoms ;  still  they  are  re 
spectable,  even  if  they  afford  us  only  an  apple  or  two 
in  a  season.  Those  few  apples  —  or,  at  all  events,  the 
remembrance  of  apples  in  by-gone  years  —  are  the 
atonement  which  utilitarianism  inexorably  demands 
for  the  privilege  of  lengthened  life.  Human  flower 
shrubs,  if  they  will  grow  old  on  earth,  should,  besides 
their  lovely  blossoms,  bear  some  kind  of  fruit  that  will 
satisfy  earthly  appetites,  else  neither  man  nor  the  de 
corum  of  Nature  will  deem  it  fit  that  the  moss  should 
gather  on  them. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  strikes  the  attention 
when  the  white  sheet  of  winter  is  withdrawn  is  the 
neglect  and  disarray  that  lay  hidden  beneath  it.  Nat 
ure  is  not  cleanly,  according  to  our  prejudices.  The 
beauty  of  preceding  years,  now  transformed  to  brown 
and  blighted  deformity,  obstructs  the  brightening  love 
liness  of  the  present  hour,  Our  avenue  is  strewn  with 
the  whole  crop  of  autumn's  withered  leaves.  There 
are  quantities  of  decayed  branches  which  one  tempest 
after  another  has  flung  down,  black  and  rotten,  and 
one  or  two  with  the  ruin  of  a  bird's  nest  clinging  to 
them.  In  the  garden  are  the  dried  bean  vines,  the 
brown  stalks  of  the  asparagus  bed,  and  melancholy 
old  cabbages  which  were  frozen  into  the  soil  before 
their  unthrifty  cultivator  could  find  time  to  gather 
them.  How  invariably,  throughout  all  the  forms  of 
life,  do  we  find  these  intermingled  memorials  of  death  I 


BUDS  AND  BIRD    VOICES.  175 

On  the  soil  of  thought  and  in  the  garden  of  the  heart, 
as  well  as  in  the  sensual  world,  lie  withered  leaves — • 
the  ideas  and  feelings  that  we  have  done  with.  There 
is  no  wind  strong  enough  to  sweep  them  away ;  infi 
nite  space  will  not  garner  them  from  our  sight.  What 
mean  they  ?  Why  may  we  not  be  permitted  to  live 
and  enjoy,  as  if  this  were  the  first  life  and  our  own 
the  primal  enjoyment,  instead  of  treading  always  on 
these  dry  bones  and  mouldering  relics,  from  the  aged 
accumulation  of  which  springs  all  that  now  appears  so 
young  and  new?  Sweet  must  have  been  the  spring 
time  of  Eden,  when  no  earlier  year  had  strewn  its 
decay  upon  the  virgin  turf  and  no  former  experience 
had  ripened  into  summer  and  faded  into  autumn  in 
the  hearts  of  its  inhabitants !  That  was  a  world  worth 
living  in.  O  thou  murmurer,  it  is  out  of  the  very 
wantonness  of  such  a  life  that  thou  feignest  these  idle 
lamentations.  There  is  no  decay.  Each  human  soul 
is  the  first-created  inhabitant  of  its  own  Eden.  We 
dwell  in  an  old  moss-covered  mansion,  and  tread  in 
the  worn  footprints  of  the  past,  and  have  a  gray  clergy 
man's  ghost  for  our  daily  and  nightly  inmate ;  yet  all 
these  outward  circumstances  are  made  less  than  vision 
ary  by  the  renewing  power  of  the  spirit.  Should  the 
spirit  ever  lose  this  power,  —  should  the  withered 
leaves,  and  the  rotten  branches,  and  the  moss-covered 
house,  and  the  ghost  of  the  gray  past  ever  become  its 
realities,  and  the  verdure  and  the  freshness  merely  its 
faint  dream,  —  then  let  it  pray  to  be  released  from 
earth.  It  will  need  the  air  of  heaven  to  revive  its 
pristine  energies. 

What  an  unlooked-for  flight  was  this  from  our  shad 
owy  avenue  of  black  ash  and  balm  of  Gilead  trees  into 
the  infinite !  Now  we  have  our  feet  again  upon  the 


176          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

turf.  Nowhere  does  the  grass  spring  up  so  industri 
ously  as  in  this  homely  yard,  along  the  base  of  the 
stone  wall,  and  in  the  sheltered  nooks  of  the  buildings, 
and  especially  around  the  southern  doorstep  —  a  local 
ity  which  seems  particularly  favorable  to  its  growth, 
for  it  is  already  tall  enough  to  bend  over  and  wave  in 
the  wind.  I  observe  that  several  weeds  —  and  most 
frequently  a  plant  that  stains  the  fingers  with  its  yel 
low  juice  —  have  survived  and  retained  their  freshness 
and  sap  throughout  the  winter.  One  knows  not  how 
they  have  deserved  such  an  exception  from  the  com 
mon  lot  of  their  race.  They  are  now  the  patriarchs 
of  the  departed  year,  and  may  preach  mortality  to  the 
present  generation  of  flowers  and  weeds. 

Among  the  delights  of  spring,  how  is  it  possible  to 
forget  the  birds  ?     Even  the  crows  were  welcome  a» 
the  sable  harbingers  of  a  brighter  and  livelier  race. 
They  visited  us  before  the  snow  was  off,  but  seem 
mostly  to  have  betaken  themselves  to  remote  depths  of 
the  woods,  which  they  haunt  all  summer  long.     Many 
a  time  shall  I  disturb  them  there,  and  feel  as  if  I  had 
intruded  among  a  company  of  silent  worshippers,  as 
they  sit   in   Sabbath   stillness    among   the   tree-tops. 
Their  voices,  when  they  speak,  are  in  admirable  ac 
cordance  with  the  tranquil  solitude  of  a  summer  after 
noon  ;  and,  resounding  so  far  above  the  head,  their 
loud  clamor  increases  the  religious  quiet  of  the  scene 
/"  instead  of  breaking  it.     A  crow,  however,  has  no  real 
)    pretensions  to  religion,  in  spite  of  his  gravity  of  mien 
/     and  black  attire  ;  he  is  certainly  a  thief,  and  probably 
(      an  infidel.     The  gulls  are  far  more  respectable,  in  a 
v-smoral  point  of  view.     These  denizens  of  sea-beaten 
rocks  and  haunters  of  the  lonely  beach  come  up  our 
mland  river  at  this  season,  and  soar  high  overhead, 


BUDS  AND  BIRD    VOICES.  177 

flapping  their  broad  wings  in  the  upper  sunshine. 
They  are  among  the  most  picturesque  of  birds,  be 
cause  they  so  float  and  rest  upon  the  air  as  to  become 
almost  stationary  parts  of  the  landscape.  The  imag 
ination  has  time  to  grow  acquainted  with  them  ;  they 
have  not  flitted  away  in  a  moment.  You  go  up  among 
the  clouds  and  greet  these  lofty-flighted  gulls,  and  re 
pose  confidently  with  them  upon  the  sustaining  atmos 
phere.  Ducks  have  their  haunts  along  the  solitary 
places  of  the  river,  and  alight  in  flocks  upon  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  overflowed  meadows.  Their  flight  is  too 
rapid  and  determined  for  the  eye  to  catch  enjoyment 
from  it,  although  it  never  fails  to  stir  up  the  heart 
with  the  sportsman's  ineradicable  instinct.  They  have 
now  gone  farther  northward,  but  will  visit  us  again 
in  autumn. 

The  smaller  birds,  —  the  little  songsters  of  the 
woods,  and  those  that  haunt  man's  dwellings  and 
claim  human  friendship  by  building  their  nests  under 
the  sheltering  eaves  or  among  the  orchard  trees — • 
these  require  a  touch  more  delicate  and  a  gentler  heart 
than  mine  to  do  them  justice.  Their  outburst  of  meL 
ody  is  like  a  brook  let  loose  from  wintry  chains.  We 
need  not  deem  it  a  too  high  and  solemn  word  to  call 
it  a  hymn  of  praise  to  the  Creator  ;  since  Nature,  who 
pictures  the  reviving  year  in  so  many  sights  of  beauty, 
has  expressed  the  sentiment  of  renewed  life  in  no  other 
sound  save  the  notes  of  these  blessed  birds.  Their 
music,  however,  just  now,  seems  to  be  incidental,  and 
not  the  result  of  a  set  purpose.  They  are  discussing 
the  economy  of  life  and  love  and  the  site  and  architect 
ure  of  their  summer  residences,  and  have  no  time  to 
Bit  on  a  twig  and  pour  forth  solemn  hymns,  or  over- 
lures,  operas,  symphonies,  and  waltzes.  Anxious  ques< 

VOL.    IL  12 


178  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

tions  are  asked ;  grave  subjects  are  settled  in  quick 
and  animated  debate  ;  and  only  by  occasional  acci 
dent,  as  from  pure  ecstasy,  does  a  rich  warble  roll  its 
tiny  waves  of  golden  sound  through  the  atmosphere. 
Their  little  bodies  are  as  busy  as  their  voices ;  they  are 
in  a  constant  flutter  and  restlessness.  Even  when  two 
or  three  retreat  to  a  tree-top  to  hold  council,  they  wag 
their  tails  and  heads  all  the  time  with  the  irrepressible 
activity  of  their  nature,  which  perhaps  renders  their 
brief  span  of  life  in  reality  as  long  as  the  patriarchal 
age  of  sluggish  man.  The  blackbirds,  three  species 
of  which  consort  together,  are  the  noisiest  of  all  our 
feathered  citizens.  Great  companies  of  them  —  more 
than  the  famous  "  four  and  twenty "  whom  Mother 
Goose  has  immortalized  —  congregate  in  contiguous 
tree-tops  and  vociferate  with  all  the  clamor  and  con 
fusion  of  a  turbulent  political  meeting.  Politics,  cer 
tainly,  must  be  the  occasion  of  such  tumultuous  de 
bates  ;  but  still,  unlike  all  other  politicians,  they  instil 
melody  into  their  individual  utterances  and  produce 
harmony  as  a  general  effect.  Of  all  bird  voices,  none 
are  more  sweet  and  cheerful  to  my  ear  than  those  of 
swallows,  in  the  dim,  sun-streaked  interior  of  a  lofty 
barn  ;  they  address  the  heart  with  even  a  closer  sym 
pathy  than  robin  redbreast.  But,  indeed,  all  these 
winged  people,  that  dwell  in  the  vicinity  of  home 
steads,  seem  to  partake  of  human  nature,  and  possess 
the  germ,  if  not  the  development,  of  immortal  souls. 
We  hear  them  saying  their  melodious  prayers  at  morn 
ing's  blush  and  eventide.  A  little  while  ago,  in  the 
deep  of  night,  there  came  the  lively  thrill  of  a  bird's 
note  from  a  neighboring  tree  —  a  real  song,  such  as 
greets  the  purple  dawn  or  mingles  with  the  yellow  sun 
shine.  What  could  the  little  bird  mean  by  pouring  it 


BUDS  AND  BIRD    VOICES.  179 

forth  at  midnight?  Probably  the  music  gushed  out  of 
the  midst  of  a  dream  in  which  he  fancied  himself  in 
paradise  with  his  mate,  but  suddenly  awoke  on  a  cold, 
leafless  bough,  with  a  New  England  mist  penetrating 
through  his  feathers.  That  was  a  sad  exchange  of 
imagination  for  reality. 

Insects  are  among  the  earliest  births  of  spring. 
Multitudes  of  I  know  not  what  species  appeared  long 
ago  on  the  surface  of  the  snow.  Clouds  of  them,  al 
most  too  minute  for  sight,  hover  in  a  beam  of  sunshine, 
and  vanish,  as  if  annihilated,  when  they  pass  into  the 
shade.  A  mosquito  has  already  been  heard  to  sound 
the  small  horror  of  his  bugle  horn.  Wasps  infest  the 
sunny  windows  of  the  house.  A  bee  entered  one  of 
the  chambers  with  a  prophecy  of  flowers.  Rare  but 
terflies  came  before  the  snow  was  off,  flaunting  in  the 
chill  breeze,  and  looking  forlorn  and  all  'astray,  in 
spite  of  the  magnificence  of  their  dark,  velvet  cloaks, 
with  golden  borders. 

The  fields  and  woodpaths  have  as  yet  few  charms  to 
entice  the  wanderer.  In  a  walk,  the  other  day,  I  found 
no  violets,  nor  anemones,  nor  anything  in  the  likeness 
of  a  flower.  It  was  worth  while,  however,  to  ascend 
our  opposite  hill  for  the  sake  of  gaining  a  general  idea 
of  the  advance  of  spring,  which  I  had  hitherto  been 
studying  in  its  minute  developments.  The  river  lay 
around  me  in  a  semicircle,  overflowing  all  the  mead 
ows  which  give  it  its  Indian  name,  and  offering  a 
noble  breadth  to  sparkle  in  the  sunbeams.  Along  the 
hither  shore  a  row  of  trees  stood  up  to  their  knees  in 
water  ;  and  afar  off,  on  the  surface  of  the  stream,  tufts 
of  bushes  thrust  up  their  heads,  as  it  were,  to  breathe. 
The  most  striking  objects  were  great  solitary  trees  here 
and  there,  with  a  mile  wide  waste  of  water  all  around 


180          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

them.  The  curtailment  of  the  trunk,  by  its  immersion 
in  the  river,  quite  destroys  the  fair  proportions  of  the 
tree,  and  thus  makes  us  sensible  of  a  regularity  and 
propriety  in  the  usual  forms  of  Nature.  The  flood  of 
the  present  season  —  though  it  never  amounts  to  a 
freshet  on  our  quiet  stream  —  has  encroached  farther 
upon  the  land  than  any  previous  one  for  at  least  a 
score  of  years.  It  has  overflowed  stone  fences,  and 
even  rendered  a  portion  of  the  highway  navigable  for 
boats.  The  waters,  however,  are  now  gradually  sub 
siding;  islands  become  annexed  to  the  main  land; 
and  other  islands  emerge,  like  new  creations,  from  the 
watery  waste.  The  scene  supplies  an  admirable  image 
of  the  receding  of  the  Nile,  except  that  there  is  no 
deposit  of  black  slime ;  or  of  Noah's  flood,  only  that 
there  is  a  freshness  and  novelty  in  these  recovered 
portions  of  the  continent  which  give  the  impression  of 
a  world  just  made  rather  than  of  one  so  polluted  that 
a  deluge  had  been  requisite  to  purify  it.  These  up- 
springing  islands  are  the  greenest  spots  in  the  land 
scape  ;  the  first  gleam  of  sunlight  suffices  to  cover 
them  with  verdure. 

Thank  Providence  for  spring !  The  earth  —  and 
man  himself,  by  sympathy  with  his  birthplace  —  would 
be  far  other  than  we  find  them  if  life  toiled  wearily 
onward  without  this  periodical  infusion  of  the  primal 
spirit.  Will  the  world  ever  be  so  decayed  that  spring 
may  not  renew  its  greenness  ?  Can  man  be  so  dismally 
age-stricken  that  no  faintest  sunshine  of  his  youth 
may  revisit  him  once  a  year  ?  It  is  impossible.  The 
moss  on  our  timeworn  mansion  brightens  into  beauty ; 
the  good  old  pastor  who  once  dwelt  here  renewed  his 
prime,  regained  his  boyhood,  in  the  genial  breezes  of 
bis  ninetieth  spring.  Alas  for  the  worn  and  heavy 


BUDS  AND  BIRD    VOICES.  181 

Soul  if,  whether  in  youth  or  age,  it  have  outlived  its 
privilege  of  spring-time  sprightliness !  From  such  a 
soul  the  world  must  hope  no  reformation  of  its  evil, 
no  sympathy  with  the  lofty  faith  and  gallant  struggles 
of  those  who  contend  in  its  behalf.  Summer  works 
in  the  present,  and  thinks  not  of  the  future ;  autumn 
is  a  rich  conservative  ;  winter  has  utterly  lost  its  faith, 
and  clings  tremulously  to  the  remembrance  of  what 
has  been ;  but  spring,  with  its  outgushing  life,  is  the 
true  type  of  the  movement. 


MONSIEUR  DU  MIROIR. 

THAN  the  gentleman  above  named,  there  is  nobody, 
in  the  whole  circle  of  my  acquaintance,  whom  I  have 
more  attentively  studied,  yet  of  whom  I  have  less  real 
knowledge,  beneath  the  surface  which  it  pleases  him 
to  present.  Being  anxious  to  discover  who  and  what 
he  really  is,  and  how  connected  with  me,  and  what 
are  to  be  the  results  to  him  and  to  myself  of  the  joint 
interest  which,  without  any  choice  on  my  part,  seems 
to  be  permanently  established  between  us,  —  and  in 
cited,  furthermore,  by  the  propensities  of  a  student  of 
human  nature,  though  doubtful  whether  Monsieur  du 
Miroir  have  aught  of  humanity  but  the  figure,  —  I 
have  determined  to  place  a  few  of  his  remarkable 
points  before  the  public,  hoping  to  be  favored  with 
some  clew  to  the  explanation  of  his  character.  Nor 
let  the  reader  condemn  any  part  of  the  narrative  as 
frivolous,  since  a  subject  of  such  grave  reflection  dif 
fuses  its  importance  through  the  minutest  particulars ; 
and  there  is  no  judging  beforehand  what  odd  little 
circumstance  may  do  the  office  of  a  blind  man's  dog 
among  the  perplexities  of  this  dark  investigation  ;  and 
however  extraordinary,  marvellous,  preternatural,  and 
utterly  incredible  some  of  the  meditated  disclosures 
may  appear,  I  pledge  my  honor  to  maintain  as  sacred 
a  regard  to  fact  as  if  my  testimony  were  given  on  oath 
and  involved  the  dearest  interests  of  the  personage  in 
question.  Not  that  there  is  matter  for  a  criminal  ac 
cusation  against  Monsieur  du  Miroir,  nor  am  I  the 


MONSIEUR  DU  M1ROIR.  183 

to  bring  it  forward  if  there  were.  The  chief  that 
I  complain  of  is  his  impenetrable  mystery,  which  is  no 
better  than  nonsense  if  it  conceal  anything  good,  and 
much  worse  in  the  contrary  case. 

But  if  undue  partialities  could  be  supposed  to  influ 
ence  me,  Monsieur  du  Miroir  might  hope  to  profit 
rather  than  to  suffer  by  them,  for  in  the  whole  of  our 
long  intercourse  we  have  seldom  had  the  slightest  dis 
agreement  ;  and,  moreover,  there  are  reasons  for  sup 
posing  him  a  near  relative  of  mine,  and  consequently 
entitled  to  the  best  word  that  I  can  give  him.  He 
bears  undisputably  a  strong  personal  resemblance  to 
myself,  and  generally  puts  on  mourning  at  the  funerals 
of  the  family.  On  the  other  hand,  his  name  would  in 
dicate  a  French  descent ;  in  which  case,  infinitely  pre 
ferring  that  my  blood  should  flow  from  a  bold  British 
and  pure  Puritan  source,  I  beg  leave  to  disclaim  all 
kindred  with  Monsieur  du  Miroir.  Some  genealo 
gists  trace  his  origin  to  Spain,  and  dub  him  a  knight 
of  the  order  of  the  CABALLEROS  DE  LOS  ESPEJOZ, 
one  of  whom  was  overthrown  by  Don  Quixote.  But 
what  says  Monsieur  du  Miroir  himself  of  his  pater 
nity  and  his  fatherland  ?  Not  a  word  did  he  ever  say 
about  the  matter  ;  and  herein,  perhaps,  lies  one  of  his 
most  especial  reasons  for  maintaining  such  a  vexatious 
mystery,  that  he  lacks  the  faculty  of  speech  to  ex 
pound  it.  His  lips  are  sometimes  seen  to  move ;  his 
eyes  and  countenance  are  alive  with  shifting  expres 
sion,  as  if  corresponding  by  visible  hieroglyphics  to 
his  modulated  breath ;  and  anon  he  will  seem  to  pause 
with  as  satisfied  an  air  as  if  he  had  been  talking  ex 
cellent  sense.  Good  sense  or  bad,  Monsieur  du  Miroir 
is  the  sole  judge  of  his  own  conversational  powers, 
uever  having  whispered  so  much  as  a  syllable  that 


184          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

reached  the  ears  of  any  other  auditor.  Is  he  really 
dumb  ?  or  is  all  the  world  deaf  ?  or  is  it  merely  a  piece 
of  my  friend's  waggery,  meant  for  nothing  but  to  make 
fools  of  us  ?  If  so  he  has  the  joke  all  to  himself. 

This  dumb  devil  which  possesses  Monsieur  du  Miron 
is,  I  am  persuaded,  the  sole  reason  that  he  does  not 
make  me  the  most  flattering  protestations  of  friend 
ship.  In  many  particulars  —  indeed,  as  to  all  hi? 
cognizable  and  not  preternatural  points,  except  that, 
once  in  a  great  while,  I  speak  a  word  or  two  —  there 
exists  the  greatest  apparent  sympathy  between  us. 
Such  is  his  confidence  in  my  taste  that  he  goes  astray 
from  the  general  fashion  and  copies  all  his  dresses 
after  mine.  I  never  try  on  a  new  garment  without 
expecting  to  meet  Monsieur  du  Miroir  in  one  of  the 
same  pattern.  He  has  duplicates  of  all  my  waistcoats 
and  cravats,  shirt  bosoms  of  precisely  a  similar  plait, 
and  an  old  coat  for  private  wear,  manufactured,  I  sus 
pect,  by  a  Chinese  tailor,  in  exact  imitation  of  a  be 
loved  old  coat  of  mine,  with  a  facsimile,  stitch  by  stitch, 
of  a  patch  upon  the  elbow.  In  truth,  the  singular  and 
minute  coincidences  that  occur,  both  in  the  accidents 
of  the  passing  day  and  the  serious  events  of  our  lives, 
remind  me  of  those  doubtful  legends  of  lovers,  or  twin 
children,  twins  of  fate,  who  have  lived,  enjoyed,  suf 
fered,  and  died  in  unison,  each  faithfully  repeating 
the  last  tremor  of  the  other's  breath,  though  sepa 
rated  by  vast  tracts  of  sea  and  land.  Strange  to  say, 
my  incommodities  belong  equally  to  my  companion, 
though  the  burden  is  nowise  alleviated  by  his  partici 
pation.  The  other  morning,  after  a  night  of  torment 
from  the  toothache,  I  met  Monsieur  du  Miroir  with 
such  a  swollen  anguish  in  his  cheek  that  my  own 
pangs  were  redoubled,  as  were  also  his,  if  I  might 


MONSIEUR  DU  MIROIR.  185 

Judge  by  a  fresh  contortion  of  his  visage.  All  the  in 
equalities  of  my  spirits  are  communicated  to  him,  caus 
ing  the  unfortunate  Monsieur  du  Miroir  to  mope  and 
scowl  through  a  whole  summer's  day,  or  to  laugh  as 
long,  for  no  better  reason  than  the  gay  or  gloomy 
crotchets  of  my  brain.  Once  we  were  joint  suffer- 
ers  of  a  three  months'  sickness,  and  met  like  mutual 
ghosts  in  the  first  days  of  convalescence.  Whenever 
I  have  been  in  love,  Monsieur  du  Miroir  has  looked 
passionate  and  tender ;  and  never  did  my  mistress  dis 
card  me  but  this  too  susceptible  gentleman  grew  lack 
adaisical.  His  temper,  also,  rises  to  blood  heat,  fever 
heat,  or  boiling  water  heat,  according  to  the  measure 
of  any  wrong  which  might  seem  to  have  fallen  entirely 
on  myself.  I  have  sometimes  been  calmed  down  by 
the  sight  of  my  own  inordinate  wrath  depicted  on  his 
frowning  brow.  Yet,  however  prompt  in  taking  up 
my  quarrels,  I  cannot  call  to  mind  that  he  ever  struck 
a  downright  blow  in  my  behalf  ;  nor,  in  fact,  do  I  per 
ceive  that  any  real  and  tangible  good  has  resulted 
from  his  constant  interference  in  my  affairs  ;  so  that, 
in  my  distrustful  moods,  I  am  apt  to  suspect  Monsieur 
du  Miroir' s  sjnnpathy  to  be  mere  outward  show,  not  a 
whit  better  nor  worse  than  other  people's  sympathy. 
Nevertheless,  as  mortal  man  must  have  something  in 
the  guise  of  sympathy,  —  and  whether  the  true  metal 
or  merely  copperwashed,  is  of  less  moment,  —  I  choose 
rather  to  content  myself  with  Monsieur  du  Miroir's 
such  as  it  is  than  to  seek  the  sterling  coin,  and  per 
haps  miss  even  the  counterfeit. 

In  my  age  of  vanities  I  have  often  seen  him  in  the 
ball  room,  and  might  again  were  I  to  seek  him  there. 
We  have  encountered  each  other  at  the  Tremont  Thea 
tre,  where,  however,  he  took  his  seat  neither  in  the 


186          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

dress  circle,  pit,  nor  upper  regions,  nor  threw  a  single 
glance  at  the  stage,  though  the  brightest  star,  even 
Fanny  Kemble  herself,  might  be  culminating  there? 
No ;  this  whimsical  friend  of  mine  chose  to  linger  in 
the  saloon,  near  one  of  the  large  looking-glasses  which 
throw  back  their  pictures  of  the  illuminated  room. 
He  is  so  full  of  these  unaccountable  eccentricities  that 
I  never  like  to  notice  Monsieur  du  Miroir,  nor  to  ac 
knowledge  the  slightest  connection  with  him,  in  places 
of  public  resort.  He,  however,  has  no  scruple  about 
claiming  my  acquaintance,  even  when  his  common 
sense,  if  he  had  any,  might  teach  him  that  I  would  as 
willingly  exchange  a  nod  with  the  Old  Nick.  It  was 
but  the  other  day  that  he  got  into  a  large  brass  kettle 
at  the  entrance  of  a  hardware  store,  and  thrust  his 
head,  the  moment  afterwards,  into  a  bright,  new  warm 
ing  pan,  whence  he  gave  me  a  most  merciless  look  of 
recognition.  He  smiled,  and  so  did  I ;  but  these  child 
ish  tricks  make  decent  people  rather  shy  of  Monsieur 
du  Miroir,  and  subject  him  to  more  dead  cuts  than 
any  other  gentleman  in  town. 

One  of  this  singular  person's  most  remarkable  pe 
culiarities  is  his  fondness  for  water,  wherein  he  excels 
any  temperance  man  whatever.  His  pleasure,  it  must 
be  owned,  is  not  so  much  to  drink  it  (in  which  respect 
a  very  moderate  quantity  will  answer  his  occasions)  as 
to  souse  himself  over  head  and  ears  wherever  he  may 
meet  with  it.  Perhaps  he  is  a  merman,  or  born  of  a 
mermaid's  marriage  with  a  mortal,  and  thus  amphib 
ious  by  hereditary  right,  like  the  children  which  the 
old  river  deities,  or  nymphs  of  fountains,  gave  to 
earthly  love.  When  no  cleaner  bathing-place  hap 
pened  to  be  at  hand,  I  have  seen  the  foolish  fellow  in 
»  horse  pond.  Sometimes  he  refreshes  himself  in  the 


MONSIEUR   DU  MIROIR.  187 

trough  of  a  town  pump,  without  caring  what  the  peo 
ple  think  about  him.  Often,  while  carefully  picking 
my  way  along  the  street  after  a  heavy  shower,  I  have 
been  scandalized  to  see  Monsieur  du  Miroir,  in  full 
dress,  paddling  from  one  mud  puddle  to  another,  and 
plunging  into  the  filthy  depths  of  each.  Seldom  have 
I  peeped  into  a  well  without  discerning  this  ridicu 
lous  gentleman  at  the  bottom,  whence  he  gazes  up,  as 
through  a  long  telescopic  tube,  and  probably  makes 
discoveries  among  the  stars  by  daylight.  Wandering 
along  lonesome  paths  or  in  pathless  forests,  when  I 
have  come  to  virgin  fountains,  of  which  it  would  have 
been  pleasant  to  deem  myself  the  first  discoverer,  I 
have  started  to  find  Monsieur  du  Miroir  there  before 
me.  The  solitude  seemed  lonelier  for  his  presence. 
I  have  leaned  from  a  precipice  that  frowns  over  Lake 
George,  which  the  French  call  Nature's  font  of  sacra 
mental  water,  and  used  it  in  their  log  churches  here 
and  their  cathedrals  beyond  the  sea,  and  seen  him  far 
below  in  that  pure  element.  At  Niagara,  too,  where 
I  would  gladly  have  forgotten  both  myself  and  him,  I 
could  not  help  observing  my  companion  in  the  smooth 
water  on  the  very  verge  of  the  cataract  just  above  the 
Table  Rock.  Were  I  to  reach  the  sources  of  the  Nile, 
I  should  expect  to  meet  him  there.  Unless  he  be  an 
other  Ladurlad,  whose  garments  the  depths  of  ocean 
could  not  moisten,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  he 
keeps  himself  in  any  decent  pickle ;  though  I  am 
bound  to  confess  that  his  clothes  seem  always  as  dry 
and  comfortable  as  my  own.  But,  as  a  friend,  I  could 
wish  that  he  would  not  so  often  expose  himself  in 
liquor. 

All  that  I  have  hitherto  related  may  be  classed 
&mong  those  little  personal  oddities  which  agreeably 


188  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

diversify  the  surface  of  society,  and,  though  they  may 
sometimes  annoy  us,  yet  keep  our  daily  intercourse 
fresher  and  livelier  than  if  they  were  done  away.  By 
an  occasional  hint,  however,  I  have  endeavored  to  pave 
the  way  for  stranger  things  to  come,  which,  had  they 
been  disclosed  at  once,  Monsieur  du  Miroir  might  have 
been  deemed  a  shadow,  and  myself  a  person  of  no  ve 
racity,  and  this  truthful  history  a  fabulous  legend. 
But,  now  that  the  reader  knows  me  worthy  of  his  con 
fidence,  I  will  begin  to  make  him  stare. 

To  speak  frankly,  then,  I  could  bring  the  most  as 
tounding  proofs  that  Monsieur  du  Miroir  is  at  least  a 
conjurer,  if  not  one  of  that  unearthly  tribe  with  whom 
conjurers  deal.  He  has  inscrutable  methods  of  con 
veying  himself  from  place  to  place  with  the  rapidity 
of  the  swiftest  steamboat  or  rail  car.  Brick  walls  and 
oaken  doors  and  iron  bolts  are  no  impediment  to  his 
passage.  Here  in  my  chamber,  for  instance,  as  the 
evening  deepens  into  night,  I  sit  alone  —  the  key  turned 
and  withdrawn  from  the  lock,  the  keyhole  stuffed  with 
paper  to  keep  out  a  peevish  little  blast  of  wind.  Yet, 
lonely  as  I  seem,  were  I  to  lift  one  of  the  lamps  and 
step  five  paces  eastward,  Monsieur  du  Miroir  would 
be  sure  to  meet  me  with  a  lamp  also  in  his  hand  ;  and 
were  I  to  take  the  stage-coach  to-morrow,  without  giv 
ing  him  the  least  hint  of  my  design,  and  post  onward 
till  the  week's  end,  at  whatever  hotel  I  might  find  my 
self  I  should  expect  to  share  my  private  apartment 
with  this  inevitable  Monsieur  du  Miroir.  Or,  out  of  a 
mere  wayward  fantasy,  were  I  to  go  by  moonlight  and 
stand  beside  the  stone  font  of  the  Shaker  Spring  at 
Canterbury,  Monsieur  du  Miroir  would  set  forth  on 
the  same  fool's  errand,  and  would  not  fail  to  meet  me 
there.  Shall  I  heighten  the  reader's  wonder?  While 


MONSIEUR  DU  MIROIR.  189 

writing  these  latter  sentences,  I  happened  to  glance 
towards  the  large,  round  globe  of  one  of  the  brass  and 
irons,  and  lo  !  a  miniature  apparition  of  Monsieur  du 
Miroir,  with  his  face  widened  and  grotesquely  con 
torted,  as  if  he  were  making  fun  of  my  amazement ! 
But  he  has  played  so  many  of  these  jokes  that  they  be 
gin  to  lose  their  effect.  Once,  presumptuous  that  he 
was,  he  stole  into  the  heaven  of  a  young  lady's  eyes ; 
so  that,  while  I  gazed  rnd  was  dreaming  only  of  her 
self,  I  found  him  also  in  my  dream.  Years  have  so 
changed  him  since  that  he  need  never  hope  to  enter 
those  heavenly  orbs  again. 

From  these  veritable  statements  it  will  be  readily 
concluded  that,  had  Monsieur  du  Miroir  played  such 
pranks  in  old  witch  times,  matters  might  have  gone 
hard  with  him ;  at  least,  if  the  constable  and  posse 
£omitatus  could  have  executed  a  warrant,  or  the  jailev 
had  been  cunning  enough  to  keep  him.  But  it  has 
often  occurred  to  me  as  a  very  singular  circumstance^ 
and  as  betokening  either  a  temperament  morbidly  sus- 
picious  or  some  weighty  cause  of  apprehension,  that 
he  never  trusts  himself  within  the  grasp  even  of  his 
most  intimate  friend.  If  you  step  forward  to  meet 
him,  he  readily  advances  ;  if  you  offer  him  your  hand, 
he  extends  his  own  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  frank 
ness  ;  but,  though  you  calculate  upon  a  hearty  shake, 
you  do  not  get  hold  of  his  little  finger.  Ah,  this  Mon 
sieur  du  Miroir  is  a  slippery  fellow  ! 

These  truly  are  matters  of  special  admiration.  After 
vainly  endeavoring,  by  the  strenuous  exertion  of  my 
own  wits,  to  gain  a  satisfactory  insight  into  the  char 
acter  of  Monsieur  du  Miroir,  I  had  recourse  to  certain 
wise  men,  and  also  to  books  of  abstruse  philosophy, 
seeking  who  it  was  that  haunted  me,  and  why.  I  heard 


190          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

long  lectures,  and  read  huge  volumes  with  little  profit 
beyond  the  knowledge  that  many  former  instances  are 
recorded,  in  successive  ages,  of  similar  connections  be 
tween  ordinary  mortals  and  beings  possessing  the  at 
tributes  of  Monsieur  du  Miroir.  Some  now  alive,  per 
haps,  besides  myself  have  such  attendants.  Would 
that  Monsieur  du  Miroir  could  be  persuaded  to  trans- 
fer  his  attachment  to  one  of  those,  and  allow  some 
other  of  his  race  to  assume  the  situation  that  he  now 
holds  in  regard  to  me  !  If  I  must  needs  have  so  in 
trusive  an  intimate,  who  stares  me  in  the  face  in  my 
closest  privacy  and  follows  me  even  to  my  bed  cham 
ber,  I  should  prefer  —  scandal  apart  —  the  laughing 
bloom  of  a  young  girl  to  the  dark  and  bearded  gravity 
of  my  present  companion.  But  such  desires  are  never 
to  be  gratified^  .  Though  the  members  of  Monsieur  du 
Miroir's  family  have  been  accused,  perhaps  justly,  of 
visiting  their  friends  often  in  splendid  halls,  and  sel 
dom  in  darksome  dungeons,  yet  they  exhibit  a  rare 
constancy  to  the  objects  of  their  first  attachment,  how 
ever  unlovely  in  person  or  unamiable  in  disposition  — 
however  unfortunate,  or  even  infamous,  and  deserted 
by  all  the  world  besides.  So  will  it  be  with  my  asso 
ciate.  Our  fates  appear  inseparably  blended.  It  is 
my  belief,  as  I  find  him  mingling  with  my  earliest  rec 
ollections,  that  we  came  into  existence  together,  as  my 
shadow  follows  me  into  the  sunshine,  and  that  here 
after,  as  heretofore,  the  brightness  or  gloom  of  my  for 
tunes  will  shine  upon  or  darken  the  face  of  Monsieur 
du  Miroir.  As  we  have  been  young  together,  and  as 
it  is  now  near  the  summer  noon  with  both  of  us,  so,  if 
long  life  be  granted,  shall  each  count  his  own  wrinkles 
on  the  other's  brow  and  his  white  hairs  on  the  other's 
head.  And  when  the  coffin  lid  shall  have  closed  over 


MONSIEUR  DU  MIR01R.  191 

me,  and  that  face  and  form,  which,  more  truly  than  the 
lover  swears  it  to  his  beloved,  are  the  sole  light  of  his 
existence,  • — when  they  shall  be  laid  in  that  dark  cham 
ber,  whither  his  swift  and  secret  footsteps  cannot  bring 
him,  —  then  what  is  to  become  of  poor  Monsieur  du 
Miroir  ?  Will  he  have  the  fortitude,  with  my  other 
friends,  to  take  a  last  look  at  my  pale  countenance  ? 
Will  he  walk  foremost  in  the  funeral  train  ?  Will  he 
come  often  and  haunt  around  my  grave,  and  weed 
away  the  nettles,  and  plant  flowers  amid  the 'verdure, 
and  scrape  the  moss  out  of  the  letters  of  my  burial 
stone  ?  Will  he  linger  where  I  have  lived,  to  remind 
the  neglectful  world  of  one  who  staked  much  to  win  a 
name,  but  will  not  then  care  whether  he  lost  or  won  ? 

Not  thus  will  he  prove  his  deep  fidelity.  Oh,  what 
terror,  if  this  friend  of  mine,  after  our  last  farewell, 
should  step  into  the  crowded  street,  or  roam  along  our 
old  frequented  path  by  the  still  waters,  or  sit  down  in 
the  domestic  circle  where  our  faces  are  most  familiar 
and  beloved !  No ;  but  when  the  rays  of  heaven  shall 
bless  me  no  more,  nor  the  thoughtful  lamplight  gleam 
'upon  my  studies,  nor  the  cheerful  fireside  gladden  the 
meditative  man,  then,  his  task  fulfilled,  shall  this  mys 
terious  being  vanish  from  the  earth  forever.  He  will 
pass  to  the  dark  realm  of  nothingness,  but  will  not 
find  me  there. 

There  is  something  fearful  in  bearing  such  a  rela 
tion  to  a  creature  so  imperfectly  known,  and  in  the 
idea  that,  to  a  certain  extent,  all  which  concerns  my 
self  will  be  reflected  in  its  consequences  upon  him. 
When  we  feel  that  another  is  to  share  the  selfsame 
fortune  with  ourselves,  we  judge  more  severely  of  our 
prospects,  and  withhold  our  confidence  from  that  de 
lusive  magic  which  appears  to  shed  an  infallibility  of 


192          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

happiness  over  our  own  pathway.  Of  late  years,  in* 
deed,  there  has  been  much  to  sadden  my  intercourse 
with  Monsieur  du  Miroir.  Had  not  our  union  been 
a  necessary  condition  of  our  life,  we  must  have  been 
estranged  ere  now.  In  early  youth,  when  my  affec 
tions  were  warm  and  free,  I  loved  him  well,  and  could 
always  spend  a  pleasant  hour  in  his  society,  chiefly 
because  it  gave  me  an  excellent  opinion  of  myself. 
Speechless  as  he  was,  Monsieur  du  Miroir  had  then 
a  most  agreeable  way  of  calling  me  a  handsome  fel 
low  ;  and  I,  of  course,  returned  the  compliment ;  so 
that,  the  more  we  kept  each  other's  company,  the 
greater  coxcombs  we  mutually  grew.  But  neither  of 
us  need  apprehend  any  such  misfortune  now.  When 
we  chance  to  meet,  —  for  it  is  chance  of tener  than  de 
sign, —  each  glances  sadly  at  the  other's  forehead, 
dreading  wrinkles  there  ;  and  at  our  temples,  whence 
the  hair  is  thinning  away  too  early  ;  and  at  the  sunken 
eyes,  which  no  longer  shed  a  gladsome  light  over  the 
whole  face.  I  involuntarily  peruse  him  as  a  record  of 
my  heavy  youth,  which  has  been  wasted  in  sluggish 
ness  for  lack  of  hope  and  impulse,  or  equally  thrown 
away  in  toil  that  had  no  wise  motive  and  has  accom 
plished  no  good  end.  I  perceive  that  the  tranquil 
gloom  of  a  disappointed  soul  has  darkened  through 
his  countenance,  where  the  blackness  of  the  future 
seems  to  mingle  with  the  shadows  of  the  past,  giv 
ing  him  the  aspect  of  a  fated  man.  Is  it  too  wild  a 
thought  that  my  fate  may  have  assumed  this  image  of 
myself,  and  therefore  haunts  me  with  such  inevitable 
pertinacity,  originating  every  act  which  it  appears  to 
imitate,  while  it  deludes  me  by  pretending  to  share 
the  events  of  which  it  is  merely  the  emblem  and  the 
prophecy  ?  I  must  banish  this  idea,  or  it  will  throw 


MONSIEUR  DU  MIR 01 R.  193 

too  deep  an  awe  round  my  companion.  At  our  next 
meeting,  especially  if  it  be  at  midnight  or  in  solitude, 
I  fear  that  I  shall  glance  aside  and  shudder;  in  which 
case,  as  'Monsieur  du  Miroir  is  extremely  sensitive  to 
ill  treatment,  he  also  will  avert  his  eyes  and  express 
horror  or  disgust. 

But  no ;  this  is  unworthy  of  me.  As  of  old  I  sought 
his  society  for  the  bewitching  dreams  of  woman's  love 
which  he  inspired  and  because  I  fancied  a  bright  for 
tune  in  his  aspect,  so  now  will  I  hold  daily  and  long 
communion  with  him  for  the  sake  of  the  stern  lessons 
that  he  will  teacL  my  manhood.  With  folded  arms 
we  will  sit  face  to  face,  and  lengthen  out  our  silent 
converse  till  a  wiser  cheerfulness  shall  have  been 
wrought  from  the  very  texture  of  despondency.  lie 
will  say,  perhaps  indignantly,  that  it  befits  only  him  ] 
to  mourn  for  the  decay  of  outward  grace,  which,  while 
he  possessed  it,  was  his  all.  But  have  not  you,  he  will 
ask,  a  treasure  in  reserve,  to  which  every  year  may^ 
add  far  more  value  than  age  or  death  itself  can  snatch 
from  that  miserable  clay  ?  He  will  tell  me  that  though 
the  bloom  of  life  has  been  nipped  with  a  frost,  yet  the 
soul  must  not  sit  shivering  in  its  cell,  but  bestir  itself 
manfully,  and  kindle  a  genial  warmth  from  its  own 
exercise  against  the  autumnal  and  the  wintry  atmos 
phere.  And  I,  in  return,  will  bid  him  be  of  good 
cheer,  nor  take  it  amiss  that  I  must  blanch  his  locks 
and  wrinkle  him  up  like  a  wilted  apple,  since  it  shall 
be  my  endeavor  so  to  beautify  his  face  with  intellect 
and  mild  benevolence  that  he  shall  profit  immensely 
by  the  change.  But  here  a  smile  will  glimmer  some 
what  sadly  over  Monsieur  du  Miroir's  visage. 

When  this  subject  shall  have  been  sufficiently  dis. 
sussed  we  may  take  up  others  as  important.     Reflect 

VOL.  II.  13 


194  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ing  upon  his  power  of  following  me  to  the  remotest 
regions  and  into  the  deepest  privacy,  I  will  compare 
the  attempt  to  escape  him  to  the  hopeless  race  that 
men  sometimes  run  with  memory,  or  their  own  hearts, 
or  their  moral  selves,  which,  though  burdened  with 
cares  enough  to  crush  an  elephant,  will  never  be  one 
step  behind.  I  will  be  self -contemplative,  as  Nature 
bids  me,  and  make  him  the  picture  or  visible  type  of 
what  I  muse  upon,  that  my  mind  may  not  wander  so 
vaguely  as  heretofore,  chasing  its  own  shadow  through 
a  chaos  and  catching  only  the  monsters  that  abide 
there.  Then  we  will  turn  our  thoughts  to  the  spiritual 
world,  of  the  reality  of  which  my  companions  shall 
furnish  me  an  illustration,  if  not  an  argument ;  for,  as 
we  have  only  the  testimony  of  the  reye  to  Monsieur  du 
Miroir's  existence,  while  all  the  other  "senses  would 
fail  to  inform  us  that  such  a  figure  stands  within  arm's 
length,  wherefore  should  there  not  be  beings  innumer 
able  close  beside  us,  and  filling  heaven  and  earth  with 
their  multitude,  yet  of  whom  no  corporeal  perception 
can  take  cognizance  ?  A  blind  man  might  as  reason 
ably  deny  that  Monsieur  du  Miroir  exists  as  we,  be 
cause  the  Creator  has  hitherto  withheld  the  spiritual 
perception,  can  therefore  contend  that  there  are  no 
spirits.  Oh,  there  are !  And,  at  this  moment,  when 
the  subject  of  which  I  write  has  grown  strong  within 
me  and  surrounded  itself  with  those  solemn  and  awful 
associations  which  might  have  seemed  most  alien  to  it, 
I  could  fancy  that  Monsieur  du  Miroir  himself  is  a 

f  wanderer  from  the  spiritual  world,  with  nothing  hu 
man  except  his  delusive  garment  of  visibility.  Me- 

\  thinks  I  should  tremble  now  were  his  wizard  power  of 
gliding  through  all  impediments  in  search  of  me  ta 
place  him  suddenly  before  my  eyes. 


MONSIEUR   DU  MIROIR.  195 

Ha !  What  is  yonder  ?  Shape  of  mystery,  did  the 
tremor  of  my  heartstrings  vibrate  to  thine  own,  and 
call  thee  from  thy  home  among  the  dancers  of  the 
northern  lights,  and  shadows  flung  from  departed  sun 
shine,  and  giant  spectres  that  appear  on  clouds  at  day 
break  and  affright  the  climber  of  the  Alps  ?  In  truth 
it  startled  me,  as  I  threw  a  wary  glance  eastward  across 
the  chamber,  to  discern  an  unbidden  guest  with  his 
eyes  bent  on  mine.  The  identical  MONSIEUR  DU 
MIROIR  !  Still  there  he  sits  and  returns  my  gaze 
with  as  much  of  awe  and  curiosity  as  if  he,  too,  had 
spent  a  solitary  evening  in  fantastic  musings  and  made 
me  his  theme.  So  inimitably  does  he  counterfeit 
that  I  could  almost  doubt  which  of  us  is  the  visionary 
form,  or  whether  each  be  not  the  other's  mystery,  and 
both  twin  brethren  of  one  fate  in  mutually  reflected 
spheres.  O  friend,  canst  thou  not  hear  and  answer 
me  ?  Break  down  the  barrier  between  us !  Grasp 
my  hand  !  Speak  !  Listen !  A  few  words,  perhaps, 
might  satisfy  the  feverish  yearning  of  my  soul  for  some 
master  thought  that  should  guide  me  through  this  lab-" 
yrinth  of  life,  teaching  wherefore  I  was  born,  and  how 
to  do  my  task  on  earth,  and  what  is  death.  Alas! 
Even  that  unreal  image  should  forget  to  ape  me  and 
smile  at  these  vain  questions.  Thus  do  mortals  deify, 
as  it  were,  a  mere  shadow  of  themselves,  a  spectre  of. 
human  reason,  and  ask  of  that  to  unveil  the  mysteries 
which  Divine  Intelligence  has  revealed  so  far  as  need 
ful  to  our  guidance,  and  hid  the  rest. 

Farewell,  Monsieur  du  Miroir.  Of  you,  perhaps,  as 
of  many  men,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  you  are  the 
wiser,  though  your  whole  business  is  REFLECTION. 


THE  HALL  OF  FANTASY. 

IT  has  happened  to  me,  on  various  occasions,  to  find 
myself  in  a  certain  edifice  which  would  appear  to  have 
some  of  the  characteristics  of  a  public  exchange.  Its 
interior  is  a  spacious  hall,  with  a  pavement  of  white 
marble.  Overhead  is  a  lofty  dome,  supported  by  long 
rows  of  pillars  of  fantastic  architecture,  the  idea  of 
which  was  probably  taken  from  the  Moorish  ruins  of 
the  Alhambra,  or  perhaps  from  some  enchanted  edifice 
in  the  Arabian  tales.  The  windows  of  this  hall  have 
a  breadth  and  grandeur  of  design  and  an  elaborateness 
of  workmanship  that  have  nowhere  been  equalled  ex 
cept  in  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  old  world.  Like 
their  prototypes,  too,  they  admit  the  light  of  heaven 
only  through  stained  and  pictured  glass,  thus  filling  the 
hall  with  many-colored  radiance  and  painting  its  mar 
ble  floor  with  beautiful  or  grotesque  designs ;  so  that 
its  inmates  breathe,  as  it  were,  a  visionary  atmosphere, 
and  tread  upon  the  fantasies  of  poetic  minds.  These 
peculiarities,  combining  a  wilder  mixture  of  styles  than 
even  an  American  architect  usually  recognizes  as  al 
lowable,  —  Grecian,  Gothic,  Oriental,  and  nondescript, 
—  cause  the  whole  edifice  to  give  the  impression  of  a 
dream,  which  might  be  dissipated  and  shattered  to 
fragments  by  merely  stamping  the  foot  upon  the  pave 
ment.  Yet,  with  such  modifications  and  repairs  as 
successive  ages  demand,  the  Hall  of  Fantasy  is  likely 
to  endure  longer  than  the  most  substantial  structure 
that  ever  cumbered  the  earth. 


THE  HALL   OF  FANTASY.  197 

It  is  not  at  all  times  that  one  can  gain  admittance 
into  this  edifice,  although  most  persons  enter  it  at  some 
period  or  other  of  their  lives ;  if  not  in  their  waking 
moments,  then  by  the  universal  passport  of  a  dream. 
At  my  last  visit  I  wandered  thither  unawares  while 
my  mind  was  busy  with  an  idle  tale,  and  was  startled 
by  the  throng  of  people  who  seemed  suddenly  to  rise 
up  around  me. 

"  Bless  me !  Where  am  I  ?  "  cried  I,  with  but  a 
dim  recognition  of  the  place. 

"  You  are  in  a  spot,"  said  a  friend  who  chanced  to 
be  near  at  hand,  "  which  occupies  in  the  world  of  fancy 
the  same  position  which  the  Bourse,  the  Rialto,  and 
the  Exchange  do  in  the  commercial  world.  All  who 
have  affairs  in  that  mystic  region,  which  lies  above, 
below,  or  beyond  the  actual,  may  here  meet  and  talk 
over  the  business  of  their  dreams." 

"  It  is  a  noble  hall,"  observed  I. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "Yet  we  see  but  a  small  por 
tion  of  the  edifice.  In  its  upper  stories  are  said  to 
be  apartments  where  the  inhabitants  of  earth  may 
hold  converse  with  those  of  the  moon ;  and  beneath 
our  feet  are  gloomy  cells,  which  communicate  with  the 
infernal  regions,  and  where  monsters  and  chimeras 
are  kept  in  confinement  and  fed  with  all  unwhole- 
someness." 

In  niches  and  on  pedestals  around  about  the  hall 
stood  the  statues  or  busts  of  men  who  in  every  age 
have  been  rulers  and  demigods  in  the  realms  of  im 
agination  and  its  kindred  regions.  The  grand  old 
countenance  of  Homer;  the  shrunken  and  decrepit 
form  but  vivid  face  of  ^sop ;  the  dark  presence  of 
Dante ;  the  wild  Ariosto  •,  Rabelais'  smile  of  deep- 
wrought  mirth ;  the  profound,  pathetic  humor  of  Cer* 


198          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

vantes ;  the  all-glorious  Shakespeare ;  Spenser,  meet 
guest  for  an  allegoric  structure;  the  severe  divinity 
of  Milton  ;  and  Bunyan,  moulded  of  homeliest  clay, 
but  instinct  with  celestial  fire,  —  were  those  that 
chiefly  attracted  my  eye.  Fielding,  Richardson,  and 
Scott  occupied  conspicuous  pedestals.  In  an  obscure 
and  shadowy  niche  was  deposited  the  bust  of  our 
countryman,  the  author  of  Arthur  Mervyn. 

"  Besides  these  indestructible  memorials  of  real 
genius,"  remarked  my  companion,  "  each  century  has 
erected  statues  of  its  own  ephemeral  favorites  in 
wood." 

"  I  observe  a  few  crumbling  relics  of  such,"  said  I. 
"  But  ever  and  anon,  I  suppose,  Oblivion  comes  with 
her  huge  broom  and  sweeps  them  all  from  the  marble 
floor.  But  such  will  never  be  the  fate  of  this  fine 
statue  of  Goethe." 

"  Nor  of  that  next  to  it  —  Emanuel  Swedenborg," 
said  he.  "  Were  ever  two  men  of  transcendent  im 
agination  more  unlike  ?  " 

In  the  centre  of  the  hall  springs  an  ornamental 
fountain,  the  water  of  which  continually  throws  itself 
into  new  shapes  and  snatches  the  most  diversified  hues 
from  the  stained  atmosphere  around.  It  is  impossible 
to  conceive  what  a  strange  vivacity  is  imparted  to  the 
scene  by  the  magic  dance  of  this  fountain,  with  its 
endless  transformations,  in  which  the  imaginative  be 
holder  may  discern  what  form  he  will.  The  water  is 
supposed  by  some  to  flow  from  the  same  source  as  the 
Castaliaii  spring,  and  is  extolled  by  others  as  uniting 
the  virtues  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth  with  those  of 
many  other  enchanted  wells  long  celebrated  in  tale 
and  song.  Having  never  tasted  it,  I  can  bear  no  tes 
timony  to  its  quality. 


THE  HALL   OF  FANTASY.  199 

"  Did  you  ever  drink  this  water  ? "  I  inquired  of 
ny  friend. 

"  A  few  sips  now  and  then,"  answered  he.  "  But 
there  are  men  here  who  make  it  their  constant  bever 
age  —  or,  at  least,  have  the  credit  of  doing  so.  In 
some  instances  it  is  known  to  have  intoxicating  quali 
ties." 

"Pray  let  us  look  at  these  water  drinkers,"  said  I. 

So  we  passed  among  the  fantastic  pillars  till  we 
came  to  a  spot  where  a  number  of  persons  were  clus 
tered  together  in  the  light  of  one  of  the  great  stained 
windows,  which  seemed  to  glorify  the  whole  group  as 
well  as  the  marble  that  they  trod  on.  Most  of  them 
were  men  of  broad  foreheads,  meditative  countenances, 
and  thoughtful,  inward  eyes  ;  yet  it  required  but  a 
trifle  to  summon  up  mirth,  peeping  out  from  the  very 
midst  of  grave  and  lofty  musings.  Some  strode  about, 
or  leaned  against  the  pillars  of  the  hall,  alone  and  in 
silence  ;  their  faces  wore  a  rapt  expression,  as  if  sweet 
music  were  in  the  air  around  them  or  as  if  their  in 
most  souls  were  about  to  float  away  in  song.  One  or 
two,  perhaps,  stole  a  glance  at  the  by-standers,  to  watch 
if  their  poetic  absorption  were  observed.  Others  stood 
talking  in  groups,  with  a  liveliness  of  expression,  a 
ready  smile,  and  a  light,  intellectual  laughter,  which 
showed  how  rapidly  the  shafts  of  wit  were  glancing  to 
and  fro  among  them. 

A  few  held  higher  converse,  which  caused  their 
calm  and  melancholy  souls  to  beam  moonlight  from 
their  eyes.  As  I  lingered  near  them,  —  for  I  felt  an 
Inward  attraction  towards  these  men,  as  if  the  sym 
pathy  of  feeling,  if  not  of  genius,  had  united  me  to 
their  order, — my  friend  mentioned  several  of  their 
.  The  world  has  likewise  heard  those  names; 


200          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

with  some  it  has  been  familiar  for  years  ;  and  othera 
are  daily  making  their  way  deeper  into  the  universal 
heart. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  observed  I  to  my  companion,  as 
we  passed  to  another  part  of  the  hall,  "  we  have  done 
with  this  techy,  wayward,  shy,  proud,  unreasonable 
set  of  laurel  gatherers.  I  love  them  in  their  works, 
but  have  little  desire  to  meet  them  elsewhere." 

44  You  have  adopted  an  old  prejudice,  I  see,"  replied 
my  friend,  who  was  familiar  with  most  of  these  wor 
thies,  being  himself  a  student  of  poetry,  and  not  with 
out  the  poetic  flame.  4t  But,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  men  of  genius  are  fairly  gifted  with  the  social 
qualities ;  and  in  this  age  there  appears  to  be  a  fellow- 
feeling  among  them  which  had  not  heretofore  been 
developed.  As  men,  they  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
be  on  equal  terms  with  their  fellow-men;  and  as 
authors,  they  have  thrown  aside  their  proverbial  jeal 
ousy,  and  acknowledge  a  generous  brotherhood." 

44  The  world  does  not  think  so,"  answered  I.  "  An 
author  is  received  in  general  society  pretty  much  as 
we  honest  citizens  are  in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  We 
gaze  at  him  as  if  he  had  no  business  among  us,  and 
question  whether  he  is  fit  for  any  of  our  pursuits." 

44  Then  it  is  a  very  foolish  question,"  said  he.  44  Now 
here  are  a  class  of  men  whom  we  may  daily  meet  on 
Change.  Yet  what  poet  in  the  hall  is  more  a  fool  of 
fancy  than  the  sagest  of  them  ?  " 

He  pointed  to  a  number  of  persons,  who,  manifest 
as  the  fact  was,  would  have  deemed  it  an  insult  to  be 
told  that  they  stood  in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  Their 
visages  were  traced  into  wrinkles  and  furrows,  each  of 
which  seemed  the  record  of  some  actual  experience  in 
life.  Their  eyes  had  the  shrewd,  calculating  glance 


THE  HALL   OF  FANTASY.  201 

which  detects  so  quickly  and  so  surely  all  that  it  con 
cerns  a  man  of  business  to  know  about  the  characters 
and  purposes  of  his  fellow-men.  Judging  them  as 
they  stood,  they  might  be  honored  and  trusted  mem 
bers  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  who  had  found 
the  genuine  secret  of  wealth,  and  whose  sagacity  gave 
them  the  command  of  fortune.  There  was  a  charac 
ter  of  detail  and  matter  of  fact  in  their  talk  which 
concealed  the  extravagance  of  its  purport,  insomuch 
that  the  wildest  schemes  had  the  aspect  of  every-day 
realities.  Thus  the  listener  was  not  startled  at  the 
idea  of  cities  to  be  built,  as  if  by  magic,  in  the  heart 
of  pathless  forests ;  and  of  streets  to  be  laid  out  where 
now  the  sea  was  tossing ;  and  of  mighty  rivers  to  be 
stayed  in  their  courses  in  order  to  turn  the  machin 
ery  of  a  cotton  mill.  It  was  only  by  an  effort,  and 
scarcely  then,  that  the  mind  convinced  itself  that  such 
speculations  were  as  much  matter  of  fantasy  as  the 
old  dream  of  Eldorado,  or  as  Mammon's  Cave,  or  any 
other  vision  of  gold  ever  conjured  up  by  the  imagina 
tion  of  needy  poet  or  romantic  adventurer. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  I,  "  it  is  dangerous  to  listen 
to  such  dreamers  as  these.  Their  madness  is  conta 
gious." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  friend,  "  because  they  mistake  the 
Hall  of  Fantasy  for  actual  brick  and  mortar,  and  its 
purple  atmosphere  for  unsophisticated  sunshine.  But 
the  poet  knows  his  whereabout,  and  therefore  is  less 
likely  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  in  real  life." 

"  Here  again,"  observed  I,  as  we  advanced  a  little 
farther,  "we  see  another  order  of  dreamers,  peculiarly 
characteristic,  too,  of  the  genius  of  our  country." 

These  were  the  inventors  of  fantastic  machines. 
Models  of  their  contrivances  were  placed  against  some 


202          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

of  the  pillars  of  the  hall,  and  afforded  good  emblems 
of  the  result  generally  to  be  anticipated  from  an  at 
tempt  to  reduce  daydreams  to  practice.  The  analogy 
may  hold  in  morals  as  well  as  physics ;  for  instance, 
here  was  the  model  of  a  railroad  through  the  air  and 
a  tunnel  under  the  sea.  Here  was  a  machine  —  stolen, 
I  believe  —  for  the  distillation  of  heat  from  moon- 
shine ;  and  another  for  the  condensation  of  morning 
mist  into  square  blocks  of  granite,  wherewith  it  was 
proposed  to  rebuild  the  entire  Hall  of  Fantasy.  One 
man  exhibited  a  sort  of  lens  whereby  he  had  suc 
ceeded  in  making  sunshine  out  of  a  lady's  smile ;  and 
it  was  his  purpose  wholly  to  irradiate  the  earth  by 
means  of  this  wonderful  invention. 

"  It  is  nothing  new,"  said  I ;  "  for  most  of  our  sun 
shine  comes  from  woman's  smile  already." 

"  True,"  answered  the  inventor ;  "  but  my  machine 
will  secure  a  constant  supply  for  domestic  use ;  whereas 
hitherto  it  has  been  very  precarious." 

Another  person  had  a  scheme  for  fixing  the  reflec 
tions  of  objects  in  a  pool  of  water,  and  thus  taking 
the  most  lifelike  portraits  imaginable ;  and  the  same 
gentleman  demonstrated  the  practicability  of  giving 
a  permanent  dye  to  ladies'  dresses,  in  the  gorgeous 
clouds  of  sunset.  There  were  at  least  fifty  kinds  of 
perpetual  motion,  one  of  which  was  applicable  to  the 
wits  of  newspaper  editors  and  writers  of  every  descrip 
tion.  Professor  Espy  was  here,  with  a  tremendous 
storm  in  a  gum-elastic  bag.  I  could  enumerate  many 
more  of  these  Utopian  inventions ;  but,  after  all,  a 
more  imaginative  collection  is  to  be  found  in  the  pat> 
ent  office  at  Washington. 

Turning  from  the  inventors  we  took  a  more  general 
survey  of  the  inmates  of  the  hall.  Many  persons  were 


THE   HALL   OF  FANTASY.  208 

present  whose  right  of  entrance  appeared  to  consist  in 
some  crotchet  of  the  brain,  which,  so  long  as  it  might 
operate,  produced  a  change  in  their  relation  to  the  act 
ual  world.  It  is  singular  how  very  few  there  are  who 
do  not  occasionally  gain  admittance  on  such  a  score, 
either  in  abstracted  musings,  or  momentary  thoughts, 
or  bright  anticipations,  or  vivid  remembrances ;  for 
even  the  actual  becomes  ideal,  whether  in  hope  or 
memory,  and  beguiles  the  dreamer  into  the  Hall  of 
Fantasy.  Some  unfortunates  make  their  whole  abode 
and  business  here,  and  contract  habits  which  unfit 
them  for  all  the  real  employments  of  life.  Others  — 
but  these  are  few  —  possess  the  faculty,  in  their  oc 
casional  visits,  of  discovering  a  purer  truth  than  the 
world  can  impart  among  the  lights  and  shadows  of 
these  pictured  windows. 

And  with  all  its  dangerous  influences,  we  have  rea 
son  to  thank  God  that  there  is  such  a  place  of  refuge  f 
from  the  gloom  and  dullness  of  actual  life.  Hither 
may  come  the  prisoner,  escaping  from  his  dark  and 
narrow  cell  and  cankerous  chain,  to  breathe  free  air 
in  this  enchanted  atmosphere.  The  sick  man  leaves 
his  weary  pillow,  and  finds  strength  to  wander  hither, 
though  his  wasted  limbs  might  not  support  him  even 
to  the  threshold  of  his  chamber.  The  exile  passes 
through  the  Hall  of  Fantasy  to  revisit  his  native  soil. 
The  burden  of  years  rolls  down  from  the  old  man's 
shoulders  the  moment  that  the  door  uncloses.  Mourn 
ers  leave  their  heavy  sorrows  at  the  entrance,  and  here 
vejoin  the  lost  ones  whose  faces  would  else  be  seen  no 
more,  until  thought  shall  have  become  the  only  fact. 
It  may  be  said,  in  truth,  that  there  is  but  half  a  life  —  ( 
the  meaner  and  earthlier  half  —  for  those  who  never  \ 
£nd  their  way  into  the  hall.  Nor  must  I  fail  to  men? 


204          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

tion  that  in  the  observatory  of  the  edifice  is  kept  that 
wonderful  perspective  glass,  through  which  the  shep 
herds  of  the  Delectable  Mountains  showed  Christian 
the  far-off  gleam  of  the  Celestial  City.  The  eye  of 
Faith  still  loves  to  gaze  through  it. 

"I  observe  some  men  here,"  said  I  to  my  friend, 
"who  might  set  up  a  strong  claim  to  be  reckoned 
among  the  most  real  personages  of  the  day." 

" Certainly,"  he  replied.  .  "If  a  man  be  in  advance 
of  his  age,  he  must  be  content  to  make  his  abode  in 
this  hall  until  the  lingering  generations  of  his  fellow- 
men  come  up  with  him.  He  can  find  no  other  shelter 
in  the  universe.  But  the  fantasies  of  one  day  are  the 
deepest  realities  of  a  future  one." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  distinguish  them  apart  amid  the 
gorgeous  and  bewildering  light  of  this  hall,"  rejoined 
I.  "  The  white  sunshine  of  actual  life  is  necessary  in 
order  to  test  them.  I  am  rather  apt  to  doubt  both 
men  and  their  reasonings  till  I  meet  them  in  that 
truthful  medium." 

"Perhaps  your  faith  in  the  ideal  is  deeper  than  you 
are  aware,"  said  my  friend.  "  You  are  at  least  a  dem 
ocrat  ;  and  methinks  no  scanty  share  of  such  faith  is 
essential  to  the  adoption  of  that  creed." 

Among  the  characters  who  had  elicited  these  re 
marks  were  most  of  the  noted  reformers  of  the  day, 
whether  in  physics,  politics,  morals,  or  religion.  There 
is  no  surer  method  of  arriving  at  the  Hall  of  Fantasy 
than  to  throw  one's  self  into  the  current  of  a  theory  ; 
for,  whatever  landmarks  of  fact  may  be  set  up  along 
the  stream,  there  is  a  law  of  nature  that  impels  it 
thither.  And  let  it  be  so ;  for  here  the  wise  head  and 
capacious  heart  may  do  their  work ;  and  what  is  good 
and  true  becomes  gradually  hardened  into  fact,  whilfl 


THE  HALL   OF  FANTASY.  205 

error  melts  away  and  vanishes  among  the  shadows  of 
the  hall.  Therefore  may  none  who  believe  and  rejoice 
in  the  progress  of  mankind  be  angry  with  me  because 
I  recognized  their  apostles  and  leaders  amid  the  fan 
tastic  radiance  of  those  pictured  windows.  I  love  and 
honor  such  men  as  well  as  they. 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  herd  of  real  or 
self-styled  reformers  that  peopled  this  place  of  refuge. 
They  were  the  representatives  of  an  unquiet  period, 
when  mankind  is  seeking  to  cast  off  the  whole  tissue 
of  ancient  custom  like  a  tattered  garment.  Many  of 
them  had  got  possession  of  some  crystal  fragment  of 
truth,  the  brightness  of  which  so  dazzled  them  that 
they  could  see  nothing  else  in  the  wide  universe.  Here 
were  men  whose  faith  had  embodied  itself  in  the  form 
of  a  potato ;  and  others  whose  long  beards  had  a 
deep  spiritual  significance.  Here  was  the  abolitionist,) 
brandishing  his  one  idea  like  an  iron  flail.  In  a  word, 
there  were  a  thousand  shapes  of  good  and  evil,  faith 
and  infidelity,  wisdom  and  nonsense  —  a  most  incon 
gruous  throng. 

Yet,  withal,  the  heart  of  the  stanchest  conservative, 
unless  he  abjured  his  fellowship  with  man,  could 
hardly  have  helped  throbbing  in  sympathy  with  the 
spirit  that  pervaded  these  innumerable  theorists.  It 
was  good  for  the  man  of  unquickened  heart  to  listen 
even  to  their  folly.  Far  down  beyond  the  fathom  of  \ 
the  intellect  the  soul  acknowledged  that  all  these  vary 
ing  and  conflicting  developments  of  humanity  were 
united  in  one  sentiment.  Be  the  individual  theory  as 
wild  as  fancy  could  make  it,  still  the  wiser  spirit  would 
recognize  the  struggle  of  the  race  after  a  better  and 
purer  life  than  had  yet  been  realized  on  earth.  My 
faith  revived  even  while  I  rejected  all  their  schemes 


206          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

It  could  not  be  that  the  world  should  continue  forever 
what  it  has  been ;  a  soil  where  Happiness  is  so  rare  a 
flower  and  Virtue  so  often  a  blighted  fruit ;  a  battle 
field  where  the  good  principle,  with  its  shield  flung 
above  its  head,  can  hardly  save  itself  amid  the  rush 
of  adverse  influences.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  such 
thoughts  I  gazed  through  one  of  the  pictured  win 
dows,  and,  behold !  the  whole  external  world  was 
tinged  with  the  dimly  glorious  aspect  that  is  peculiar 
to  the  Hall  of  Fantasy,  insomuch  that  it  seemed  prac 
ticable  at  that  very  instant  to  realize  some  plan  for 
the  perfection  of  mankind.  But,  alas!  if  reformers 
would  understand  the  sphere  in  which  their  lot  is  cast 
they  must  cease  to  look  through  pictured  windows. 
Yet  they  not  only  use  this  medium,  but  mistake  it  for 
the  whitest  sunshine. 

"  Come,"  said  I  to  my  friend,  starting  from  a  deep 
reverie,  "  let  us  hasten  hence  or  I  shall  be  tempted  to 
make  a  theory,  after  which  there  is  little  hope  of  any 
man." 

"  Come  hither,  then,"  answered  he.  "  Here  is  one 
theory  that  swallows  up  and  annihilates  all  others." 

He  led  me  to  a  distant  part  of  the  hall  where  a 
crowd  of  deeply  attentive  auditors  were  assembled 
round  an  elderly  man  of  plain,  honest,  trustworthy 
aspect.  With  an  earnestness  that  betokened  the  sin- 
cerest  faith  in  his  own  doctrine,  he  announced  that  the 
destruction  of  the  world  was  close  at  hand. 

"  It  is  Father  Miller  himself  !  "  exclaimed  I. 

"  No  less  a  man,"  said  my  friend ;  "  and  observe 
how  picturesque  a  contrast  between  his  dogma  and 
those  of  the  reformers  whom  we  have  just  glanced  at. 
They  look  for  the  earthly  perfection  of  mankind,  and 
«,re  forming  schemes  which  imply  that  the  immortal 


THE  HALL    OF  FANTASY.  207 

spirit  will  be  connected  with  a  physical  nature  for  in» 
numerable  ages  of  futurity.  On  the  other  hand,  here 
comes  good  Father  Miller,  and  with  one  puff  of  his 
relentless  theory  scatters  all  their  dreams  like  so  many 
withered  leaves  upon  the  blast." 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  the  only  method  of  getting  man 
kind  out  of  the  various  perplexities  into  which  they 
have  fallen,"  I  replied.  "  Yet  I  could  wish  that  the 
world  might  be  permitted  to  endure  until  some  great 
moral  shall  have  been  evolved.  A  riddle  is  pro 
pounded.  Where  is  the  solution?  The  sphinx  did 
not  slay  herself  until  her  riddle  had  been  guessed. 
Will  it  not  be  so  with  the  world  ?  Now,  if  it  should 
be  burned  to-morrow  morning,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  purpose  will  have  been  accomplished,  or  how  the 
universe  will  be  wiser  or  better  for  our  existence  and 
destruction." 

"  We  cannot  tell  what  mighty  truths  may  have  been 
embodied  in  act  through  the  existence  of  the  globe  and 
its  inhabitants,"  rejoined  my  companion.  "  Perhaps 
it  may  be  revealed  to  us  after  the  fall  of  the  curtain 
over  our  catastrophe;  or  not  impossibly,  the  whole 
drama,  in  which  we  are  involuntary  actors,  may  have 
been  performed  for  the  instruction  of  another  set  of 
spectators.  I  cannot  perceive  that  our  own  compre 
hension  of  it  is  at  all  essential  to  the  matter.  At  any 
rate,  while  our  view  is  so  ridiculously  narrow  and  su 
perficial  it  would  be  absurd  to  argue  the  continuance 
of  the  world  from  the  fact  that  it  seems  to  have  ex 
isted  hitherto  in  vain." 

"The  poor  old  earth,"  murmured  I.  "She  has 
faults  enough,  in  all  conscience,  but  I  cannot  bear  to 
have  her  perish." 

"It  is  no   great   matter,"  said  my  friend.     "Thg 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

happiest  of  us  has  been  weary  of  her  many  a  time  and 
oft." 

"I  doubt  it,"  answered  I,  pertinaciously  ;  "  the  root 
of  human  nature  strikes  down  deep  into  this  earthly 
soil,  and  it  is  but  reluctantly  that  we  submit  to  be 
transplanted,  even  for  a  higher  cultivation  in  heaven. 
I  query  whether  the  destruction  of  the  earth  would 
gratify  any  one  individual,  except  perhaps  some  em 
barrassed  man  of  business  whose  notes  fall  due  a  day 
after  the  day  of  doom." 

Then  methought  I  heard  the  expostulating  cry  of 
a  multitude  against  the  consummation  prophesied  by 
Father  Miller.  The  lover  wrestled  with  Providence 
for  his  foreshadowed  bliss.  Parents  entreated  that 
the  earth's  span  of  endurance  might  be  prolonged  by 
some  seventy  years,  so  that  their  new-born  infant 
should  not  be  defrauded  of  his  lifetime.  A  youthful 
poet  murmured  because  there  would  be  no  posterity  to 
recognize  the  inspiration  of  his  song.  The  reformers, 
one  and  all,  demanded  a  few  thousand  years  to  test 
their  theories,  after  which  the  universe  might  go  to 
wreck.  A  mechanician,  who  was  busied  with  an  im 
provement  of  the  steam-engine,  asked  merely  time  to 
perfect  his  model.  A  miser  insisted  that  the  world's 
destruction  would  be  a  personal  wrong  to  himself,  un 
less  he  should  first  be  permitted  to  add  a  specified  sum 
to  his  enormous  heap  of  gold.  A  little  boy  made  dol 
orous  inquiry  whether  the  last  day  would  come  before 
Christmas,  and  thus  deprive  him  of  his  anticipated 
dainties.  In  short,  nobody  seemed  satisfied  that  this 
mortal  scene  of  things  should  have  its  close  just  now. 
5Tet,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  motives  of  the  crowd  for 
desiring  its  continuance  were  mostly  so  absurd  that 
unless  infinite  Wisdom  had  been  aware  of  much  bet 


THE  HALL    OF  FANTASY.  209 

ter  reasons,  the  solid  earth  must  have  melted  away  at 
once. 

For  my  own  part,  not  to  speak  of  a  few  private  and 
personal  ends,  I  really  desired  our  old  mother's  pro 
longed  existence  for  her  own  dear  sake. 

"  The  poor  old  earth ! "  I  repeated.  "  What  I  should 
chiefly  regret  in  her  destruction  would  be  that  very 
earthliness  which  no  other  sphere  or  state  of  existence 
can  renew  or  compensate.  The  fragrance  of  flowers 
and  of  new-mown  hay ;  the  genial  warmth  of  sunshine 
and  the  beauty  of  a  sunset  among  clouds ;  the  comfort 
and  cheerful  glow  of  the  fireside ;  the  deliciousness 
of  fruits  and  of  all  good  cheer ;  the  magnificence  of 
mountains  and  seas  and  cataracts,  and  the  softer 
charm  of  rural  scenery ;  even  the  fast  falling  snow  and 
the  gray  atmosphere  through  which  it  descends,  —  all 
these  and  innumerable  other  enjoyable  things  of  earth 
must  perish  with  her.  Then  the  country  frolics  ;  the 
homely  humor  ;  the  broad,  open-mouthed  roar  of 
laughter,  in  which  body  and  soul  conjoin  so  heartily ! 
I  fear  that  no  other  world  can  show  us  anything  just 
like  this.  As  for  purely  moral  enjoyments,  the  good 
will  find  them  in  every  state  of  being.  But  where  the 
material  and  the  moral  exist  together,  what  is  to  hap 
pen  then  ?  And  then  our  mute  four-footed  friends  and 
the  winged  songsters  of  our  woods !  Might  it  not  be 
lawful  to  regret  them,  even  in  the  hallowed  groves  of 
paradise  ?  " 

"You  speak  like  the  very  spirit  of  earth,  imbued 
with  a  scent  of  freshly  turned  soil,"  exclaimed  my 
Mend. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  so  much  object  to  giving  up  these 
enjoyments  on  my  own  account,"  continued  I,  "  but  I 

voj,   n.  14 


210          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

hate  to  think  that  they  will  have  been  eternally  an 
nihilated  from  the  list  of  joys." 

"  Nor  need  they  be,"  he  replied.  "  I  see  no  real 
force  in  what  you  say.  Standing  in  this  Hall  of  Fan 
tasy,  we  perceive  what  even  the  earth-clogged  intellect 
of  man  can  do  in  creating  circumstances  which,  though 
we  call  them  shadowy  and  visionary,  are  scarcely  more 
so  than  those  that  surround  us  in  actual  life.  Doubt 
not  then  that  man's  disembodied  spirit  may  recreate 
time  and  the  world  for  itself,  with  all  their  peculiar 
enjoyments,  should  there  still  be  human  yearnings 
amid  life  eternal  and  infinite.  But  I  doubt  whether 
we  shall  be  inclined  to  play  such  a  poor  scene  over 
again." 

"  Oh,  you  are  ungrateful  to  our  mother  earth !  "  re 
joined  I.  "  Come  what  may,  I  never  will  forget  her  ! 
Neither  will  it  satisfy  me  to  have  her  exist  merely  in 
idea.  I  want  her  great,  round,  solid  self  to  endure 
interminably,  and  still  to  be  peopled  with  the  kindly 
race  of  man,  whom  I  uphold  to  be  much  better  than  he 
thinks  himself.  Nevertheless,  I  confide  the  whole  mat 
ter  to  Providence,  and  shall  endeavor  so  to  live  that 
the  world  may  come  to  an  end  at  any  moment  without- 
leaving  me  at  a  loss  to  find  foothold  somewhere  else." 

"It  is  an  excellent  resolve,"  said  my  companion, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  But  come ;  it  is  the  dinner 
hour.  Will  you  partake  of  my  vegetable  diet  ?  " 

A  thing  so  matter-of-fact  as  an  invitation  to  dinner, 
even  when  the  fare  was  to  be  nothing  more  substantial 
than  vegetables  and  fruit,  compelled  us  forthwith  to 
remove  from  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  As  we  passed  out 
of  the  portal  we  met  the  spirits  of  several  persons  who 
had  been  sent  thither  in  magnetic  sleep.  I  looked 
back  among  the  sculptured  pillars  and  at  the  transfer- 


THE  HALL   OF  FANTASY.  211 

mations  of  the  gleaming  fountain,  and  almost  desired 
that  the  whole  of  life  might  be  spent  in  that  visionary 
scene  where  the   actual  world,  with  its  hard  angles, 
should   never   rub   against   me,   and   only  be  viewed 
through  the  medium  of   pictured  windows.     But  for. 
those  who  waste  all  their  days  in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy,  ] 
good  Father  Miller's  prophecy  is  already  accomplished,  I 
and  the  solid  earth  has  come  to  an  untimely  end.    Let 
us  be  content,  therefore,  with   merely  an   occasional 
visit,  for  the  sake  of  spiritualizing  the  grossness  of  this 
actual  life,  and  prefiguring   to   ourselves   a  state  in 
which  the  Idea  shall  be  all  in  all. 


THE  CELESTIAL  RAILROAD. 

NOT  a  great  while  ago,  passing  through  the  gate  of 
dreams,  I  visited  that  region  of  the  earth  in  which  lies 
the  famous  City  of  Destruction.  It  interested  me  much 
to  learn  that  by  the  public  spirit  of  some  of  the  inhab 
itants  a  railroad  has  recently  been  established  between 
this  populous  and  flourishing  town  and  the  Celestial 
City.  Having  a  little  time  upon  my  hands,  I  resolved 
to  gratify  a  liberal  curiosity  by  making  a  trip  thither. 
Accordingly,  one  fine  morning  after  paying  my  bill  at 
the  hotel,  and  directing  the  porter  to  stow  my  luggage 
behind  a  coach,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  vehicle  and  set 
out  for  the  station-house.  It  was  my  good  fortune  to 
enjoy  the  company  of  a  gentleman  —  one  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away  —  who,  though  he  had  never  actually  visited 
the  Celestial  City,  yet  seemed  as  well  acquainted  with 
its  laws,  customs,  policy,  and  statistics,  as  with  those 
of  the  City  of  Destruction,  of  which  he  was  a  native 
townsman.  Being,  moreover,  a  director  of  the  railroad 
corporation  and  one  of  its  largest  stockholders,  he  had 
it  in  his  power  to  give  me  all  desirable  information  re 
specting  that  praiseworthy  enterprise. 

Our  coach  rattled  out  of  the  city,  and  at  a  short  dis 
tance  from  its  outskirts  passed  over  a  bridge  of  elegant 
construction,  but  somewhat  too  slight,  as  I  imagined, 
to  sustain  any  considerable  weight.  On  both  sides  lay 
an  extensive  quagmire,  which  could  not  have  been 
more  disagreeable,  either  to  sight  or  smell,  had  all' the 
kennels  of  the  earth  emptied  their  pollution  there. 


THE   CELESTIAL   RAILROAD.  213 

"  This,"  remarked  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  "  is  the  fa 
mous  Slough  of  Despond  —  a  disgrace  to  all  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  and  the  greater  that  it  might  so  easily  be 
converted  into  firm  ground." 

"  I  have  understood,"  said  I,  "  that  efforts  have  been 
made  for  that  purpose  from  time  immemorial.  Bun- 
yan  mentions  that  above  twenty  thousand  cartloads  of 
wholesome  instructions  had  been  thrown  in  here  with 
out  effect." 

"  Very  probably !  And  what  effect  could  be 
anticipated  from  such  unsubstantial  stuff  ? "  cried 
Mr.  Smooth-it-away.  "  You  observe  this  convenient 
bridge.  We  obtained  a  sufficient  foundation  for  it  by 
throwing  into  the  slough  some  editions  of  books  of 
morality  ;  volumes  of  French  philosophy  and  German 
rationalism ;  tracts,  sermons,  and  essays  of  modern 
clergymen  ;  extracts  from  Plato,  Confucius,  and  vari 
ous  Hindoo  sages,  together  with  a  few  ingenious  com 
mentaries  upon  texts  of  Scripture,  —  all  of  which  by 
some  scientific  process,  have  been  converted  into  a 
mass  like  granite.  The  whole  bog  might  be  filled  up 
with  similar  matter." 

It  really  seemed  to  me,  however,  that  the  bridge  vi 
brated  and  heaved  up  and  down  in  a  very  formidable 
manner  ;  and,  spite  of  Mr.  Smooth-it-away's  testimony 
to  the  solidity  of  its  foundation,  I  should  be  loath  to 
cross  it  in  a  crowded  omnibus,  especially  if  each  pas 
senger  were  encumbered  with  as  heavy  luggage  as  that 
gentleman  and  myself.  Nevertheless  we  got  over  with 
out  accident,  and  soon  found  ourselves  at  the  station- 
house.  This  very  neat  and  spacious  edifice  is  erected 
on  the  site  of  the  little  wicket  gate,  which  formerly,  as 
all  old  pilgrims  will  recollect,  stood  directly  across  the 
highway,  and,  by  its  inconvenient  narrowness,  was  a 


214          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MArNSE. 

great  obstruction  to  the  traveller  of  liberal  mind  and 
expansive  stomach.  The  reader  of  John  Bunyan  will 
be  glad  to  know  that  Christian's  old  friend  Evangel 
ist,  who  was  accustomed  to  supply  each  pilgrim  with  a 
mystic  roll,  now  presides  at  the  ticket  office.  Some 
malicious  persons  it  is  true  deny  the  identity  of  this 
reputable  character  with  the  Evangelist  of  old  times, 
and  even  pretend  to  bring  competent  evidence  of  an 
imposture.  Without  involving  myself  in  a  dispute  I 
shall  merely  observe  that,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  the  square  pieces  of  pasteboard  now  delivered  to 
passengers  are  much  more  convenient  and  useful  along 
the  road  than  the  antique  roll  of  parchment.  Whether 
they  will  be  as  readily  received  at  the  gate  of  the  Ce 
lestial  City  I  decline  giving  an  opinion. 

A  large  number  of  passengers  were  already  at  the 
station-house  awaiting  the  departure  of  the  cars.  By 
the  aspect  and  demeanor  of  these  persons  it  was  easy 
to  judge  that  the  feelings  of  the  community  had  under 
gone  a  very  favorable  change  in  reference  to  the  celes 
tial  pilgrimage.  It  would  have  done  Bunyan's  heart 
good  to  see  it.  Instead  of  a  lonely  and  ragged  man 
with  a  huge  burden  on  his  back,  plodding  along  sor 
rowfully  on  foot  while  the  whole  city  hooted  after  him, 
here  were  parties  of  the  first  gentry  and  most  respect 
able  people  in  the  neighborhood  setting  forth  towards 
the  Celestial  City  as  cheerfully  as  if  the  pilgrimage 
were  merely  a  summer  tour.  Among  the  gentlemen 
were  characters  of  deserved  eminence  —  magistrates, 
politicians,  and  men  of  wealth,  by  whose  example  re 
ligion  could  not  but  be  greatly  recommended  to  their 
meaner  brethren.  In  the  ladies'  apartment,  too,  I  re* 
joiced  to  distinguish  some  of  those  flowers  of  fashion 
able  society  who  are  so  well  fitted  to  adorn  the  most 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  215 

elevated  circles  of  the  Celestial  City.  There  was 
much  pleasant  conversation  about  the  news  of  the  day, 
topics  of  business  and  politics,  or  the  lighter  matters 
of  amusement ;  while  religion,  though  indubitably  the 
main  thing  at  heart,  was  thrown  tastefully  into  the 
background.  Even  an  infidel  would  have  heard  little 
or  nothing  to  shock  his  sensibility. 

One  great  convenience  of  the  new  method  of  going 
on  pilgrimage  I  must  not  forget  to  mention.  Our 
enormous  burdens,  instead  of  being  carried  on  our 
shoulders  as  had  been  the  custom  of  old,  were  all 
snugly  deposited  in  the  baggage  car,  and,  as  I  was  as 
sured,  would  be  delivered  to  their  respective  owners  at 
the  journey's  end.  Another  thing,  likewise,  the  be 
nevolent  reader  will  be  delighted  to  understand.  It 
may  be  remembered  that  there  was  an  ancient  feud  be 
tween  Prince  Beelzebub  and  the  keeper  of  the  wicket 
gate,  and  that  the  adherents  of  the  former  distinguished 
personage  were  accustomed  to  shoot  deadly  arrows  at 
honest  pilgrims  while  knocking  at  the  door.  This  dis 
pute,  much  to  the  credit  as  well  of  the  illustrious  po 
tentate  above  mentioned  as  of  the  worthy  and  enlight 
ened  directors  of  the  railroad,  has  been  pacifically 
arranged  on  the  principle  of  mutual  compromise.  The 
prince's  subjects  are  now  pretty  numerously  employed 
about  the  station-house,  some  in  taking  care  of  the  bag 
gage,  others  in  collecting  fuel,  feeding  the  engines,  and 
such  congenial  occupations ;  and  I  can  conscientiously 
affirm  that  persons  more  attentive  to  their  business, 
more  willing  to  accommodate,  or  more  generally  agree 
able  to  the  passengers,  are  not  to  be  found  on  any  rail 
road.  Every  good  heart  must  surely  exult  at  so  satis 
factory  an  arrangement  of  an  immemorial  difficulty. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Greatheart  ?  "  inquired  I.    "  Beyond 


216  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

a  doubt  the  directors  have  engaged  that  famous  old 
champion  to  be  chief  conductor  on  the  railroad  ?  " 

"Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  with  a  dry 
cough.  "  He  was  offered  the  situation  of  brakeman ; 
but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  our  friend  Greatheart  has 
grown  preposterously  stiff  and  narrow  in  his  old  age. 
He  has  so  often  guided  pilgrims  over  the  road  on  foot 
that  he  considers  it  a  sin  to  travel  in  any  other  fashion. 
Besides,  the  old  fellow  had  entered  so  heartily  into  the 
ancient  feud  with  Prince  Beelzebub  that  he  would  have 
been  perpetually  at  blows  or  ill  language  with  some  of 
the  prince's  subjects,  and  thus  have  embroiled  us  anew. 
So,  on  the  whole,  we  were  not  sorry  when  honest  Great- 
heart  went  off  to  the  Celestial  City  in  a  huff  and  left 
us  at  liberty  to  choose  a  more  suitable  and  accommo 
dating  man.  Yonder  comes  the  engineer  of  the  train. 
You  will  probably  recognize  him  at  once." 

The  engine  at  this  moment  took  its  station  in  ad 
vance  of  the  cars,  looking,  I  must  confess,  much  more 
like  a  sort  of  mechanical  demon  that  would  hurry  us 
to  the  infernal  regions  than  a  laudable  contrivance 
for  smoothing  our  way  to  the  Celestial  City.  On  its 
top  sat  a  personage  almost  enveloped  in  smoke  and 
flame,  which,  not  to  startle  the  reader,  appeared  to 
gush  from  his  own  mouth  and  stomach  as  well  as  from 
the  engine's  brazen  abdomen. 

"  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ?  "  cried  I.  "  What  on 
earth  is  this  !  A  living  creature  ?  If  so,  he  is  own 
brother  to  the  engine  he  rides  upon  !  " 

"  Poh,  poh,  you  are  obtuse !  "  said  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away,  with  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Don't  you  know  Apol- 
lyon,  Christian's  old  enemy,  with  whom  he  fought  so 
fierce  a  battle  in  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  ?  He  was 
the  very  fellow  to  manage  the  engine ;  and  so  we  hava 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  217 

reconciled  him  to  the  custom  of  going  on  pilgrimage, 
and  engaged  him  as  chief  engineer." 

"  Bravo,  bravo !  "  exclaimed  I,  with  irrepressible  en 
thusiasm  ;  "  this  shows  the  liberality  of  the  age ;  this 
proves,  if  anything  can,  that  all  musty  prejudices  are 
in  a  fair  way  to  be  obliterated.  And  how  will  Chris 
tian  rejoice  to  hear  of  this  happy  transformation  of  his 
old  antagonist!  I  promise  myself  great  pleasure  in 
informing  him  of  it  when  we  reach  the  Celestial 
City." 

The  passengers  being  all  comfortably  seated,  we  now 
rattled  away  merrily,  accomplishing  a  greater  distance 
in  ten  minutes  than  Christian  probably  trudged  over 
in  a  day.  It  was  laughable,  while  we  glanced  along, 
fts  it  were,  at  the  tail  of  a  thunderbolt,  to  observe 
two  dusty  foot  travellers  in  the  old  pilgrim  guise,  with 
cockle  shell  and  staff,  their  mystic  rolls  of  parchment 
in  their  hands  and  their  intolerable  burdens  on  their 
backs.  The  preposterous  obstinacy  of  these  honest 
people  in  persisting  to  groan  and  stumble  along  the 
difficult  pathway  rather  than  take  advantage  of  mod 
ern  improvements,  excited  great  mirth  among  our 
wiser  brotherhood.  We  greeted  the  two  pilgrims 
with  many  pleasant  gibes  and  a  roar  of  laughter; 
whereupon  they  gazed  at  us  with  such  woful  and  ab 
surdly  compassionate  visages  that  our  merriment  grew 
tenfold  more  obstreperous.  Apollyon  also  entered 
heartily  into  the  fun,  and  contrived  to  flirt  the  smoke 
and  flame  of  the  engine,  or  of  his  own  breath,  into  their 
faces,  and  envelop  them  in  an  atmosphere  of  scalding 
steam.  These  little  practical  jokes  amused  us  might 
ily,  and  doubtless  afforded  the  pilgrims  the  gratifica 
tion  of  considering  themselves  martyrs. 

At  some  distance  from  the  railroad  Mr.  Smooth-it- 


218  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

away  pointed  to  a  large,  antique  edifice,  which,  he  oK 
served,  was  a  tavern  of  long  standing,  and  had  for 
merly  been  a  noted  stopping-place  for  pilgrims.  In 
Bunyan's  road-book  it  is  mentioned  as  the  Interpret 
er's  House. 

"  I  have  long  had  a  curiosity  to  visit  that  old  man 
sion,"  remarked  I. 

"  It  is  not  one  of  our  stations,  as  you  perceive,"  said 
my  companion.  "  The  keeper  was  violently  opposed 
to  the  railroad ;  and  well  he  might  be,  as  the  track  left 
his  house  of  entertainment  on  one  side,  and  thus  was 
pretty  certain  to  deprive  him  of  all  his  reputable  cus 
tomers.  But  the  footpath  still  passes  his  door ,  and 
the  old  gentleman  now  and  then  receives  a  call  from 
some  simple  traveller,  and  entertains  him  with  fare  as 
old-fashioned  as  himself." 

Before  our  talk  on  this  subject  came  to  a  conclusion 
we  were  rushing  by  the  place  where  Christian's  burden 
fell  from  his  shoulders  at  the  sight  of  the  Cross.  This 
served  as  a  theme  for  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  Mr.  Live- 
for-the-world,  Mr.  Hide-sin-in-the-heart,  Mr.  Scaly- 
conscience,  and  a  knot  of  gentlemen  'from  the  town 
of  Shun-repentance,  to  descant  upon  the  inestimable 
advantages  resulting  from  the  safety  of  our  baggage. 
Myself,  and  all  the  passengers  indeed,  joined  with 
great  unanimity  in  this  view  of  the  matter ;  for  our 
burdens  were  rich  in  many  things  esteemed  precious 
throughout  the  world  ;  and,  especially,  we  each  of  us 
possessed  a  great  variety  of  favorite  Habits,  which  we 
trusted  would  not  be  out  of  fashion  even  in  the  polite 
circles  of  the  Celestial  City.  It  would  have  been  a 
sad  spectacle  to  see  such  an  assortment  of  valuable 
articles  tumbling  into  the  sepulchre.  Thus  pleasantly 
conversing  on  the  favorable  circumstances  of  our  posi 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  219 

tion  as  compared  with  those  of  past  pilgrims  and  of 
narrow-minded  ones  at  the  present  day,  we  soon  found 
ourselves  at  the  foot  of  the  Hill  Difficulty.  Through 
the  very  heart  of  this  rocky  mountain  a  tunnel  has  been 
constructed  of  most  admirable  architecture,  with  a  lofty 
arch  and  a  spacious  double  track ;  so  that,  unless  the 
earth  and  rocks  should  chance  to  crumble  down,  it  will 
remain  an  eternal  monument  of  the  builder's  skill  and 
enterprise.  It  is  a  great  though  incidental  advantage 
that  the  materials  from  the  heart  of  the  Hill  Difficulty 
have  been  employed  in  filling  up  the  Valley  of  Humil 
iation,  thus  obviating  the  necessity  of  descending  into 
that  disagreeable  and  unwholesome  hollow. 

"  This  is  a  wonderful  improvement,  indeed,"  said  I. 
"  Yet  I  should  have  been  glad  of  an  opportunity  to 
visit  the  Palace  Beautiful  and  be  introduced  to  the 
charming  young  ladies  —  Miss  Prudence,  Miss  Piety, 
Miss  Charity,  and  the  rest  —  who  have  the  kindness  to 
entertain  pilgrims  there." 

"  Young  ladies ! "  cried  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  as  soon 
as  he  could  speak  for  laughing.  "And  charming 
young  ladies  !  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  they  are  old 
maids,  every  soul  of  them  —  prim,  starched,  dry,  and 
angular ;  and  not  one  of  them,  I  will  venture  to  say, 
has  altered  so  much  as  the  fashion  of  her  gown  since 
the  days  of  Christian's  pilgrimage." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  I,  much  comforted,  "  then  I  can 
very  readily  dispense  with  their  acquaintance." 

The  respectable  Apollyon  was  now  putting  on  the 
steam  at  a  prodigious  rate,  anxious,  perhaps,  to  get  rid 
of  the  unpleasant  reminiscences  connected  with  the 
spot  where  he  had  so  disastrously  encountered  Christ 
ian.  Consulting  Mr.  Bunyan's  road-book,  I  perceived 
that  we  must  now  be  within  a  few  miles  of  the  Vallev 


220          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  into  which  doleful  region,  at 
our  present  speed,  we  should  plunge  much  sooner  than 
seemed  at  all  desirable.  In  truth,  I  expected  nothing 
better  than  to  find  myself  in  the  ditch  on  one  side  or 
the  quag  on  the  other ;  but  on  communicating  my  ap 
prehensions  to  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  he  assured  me  that 
the  difficulties  of  this  passage,  even  in  its  worst  condi 
tion,  had  been  vastly  exaggerated,  and  that,  in  its  pres 
ent  state  of  improvement,  I  might  consider  myself  as 
safe  as  on  any  railroad  in  Christendom. 

Even  while  we  were  speaking  the  train  shot  into 
the  entrance  of  this  dreaded  Valley.  Though  I  plead 
guilty  to  some  foolish  palpitations  of  the  heart  during 
our  headlong  rush  over  the  causeway  here  constructed, 
yet  it  were  unjust  to  withhold  the  highest  encomiums 
on  the  boldness  of  its  original  conception  and  the  inge 
nuity  of  those  who  executed  it.  It  was  gratifying,  like 
wise,  to  observe  how  much  care  had  been  taken  to 
dispel  the  everlasting  gloom  and  supply  the  defect  of 
cheerful  sunshine,  not  a  ray  of  which  has  ever  pene 
trated  among  these  awful  shadows.  For  this  purpose, 
the  inflammable  gas  which  exudes  plentifully  from  the 
soil  is  collected  by  means  of  pipes,  and  thence  com 
municated  to  a  quadruple  row  of  lamps  along  the 
whole  extent  of  the  passage.  Thus  a  radiance  has 
been  created  even  out  of  the  fiery  and  sulphurous 
curse  that  rests  forever  upon  the  valley  —  a  radiance 
hurtful,  however,  to  the  eyes,  and  somewhat  bewilder 
ing,  as  I  discovered  by  the  changes  which  it  wrought 
in  the  visages  of  my  companions.  In  this  respect,  as 
compared  with  natural  daylight,  there  is  the  same  dif 
ference  as  between  truth  and  falsehood ;  but  if  the 
reader  have  ever  travelled  through  the  dark  Valley, 
ke  will  have  learned  to  be  thankful  for  any  light  that 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  221 

he  could  get  —  if  not  from  the  sky  above,  then  from 
the  blasted  soil  beneath.  Such  was  the  red  brilliancy 
of  these  lamps  that  they  appeared  to  build  walls  of  fire 
on  both  sides  of  the  track,  between  which  we  held  our 
course  at  lightning  speed,  while  a  reverberating  thun 
der  filled  the  Valley  with  its  echoes.  Had  the  engine 
run  off  the  track,  —  a  catastrophe,  it  is  whispered,  by 
no  means  unprecedented,  —  the  bottomless  pit,  if  there 
be  any  such  place,  would  undoubtedly  have  received 
us.  Just  as  some  dismal  fooleries  of  this  nature  had 
made  my  heart  quake  there  came  a  tremendous  shriek, 
careering  along  the  valley  as  if  a  thousand  devils  had 
burst  their  lungs  to  utter  it,  but  which  proved  to  be 
merely  the  whistle  of  the  engine  on  arriving  at  a  stop 
ping-place. 

The  spot  where  we  had  now  paused  is  the  same  that 
our  friend  Bunyan  —  a  truthful  man,  but  infected  with 
many  fantastic  notions  —  has  designated,  in  terms 
plainer  than  I  like  to  repeat,  as  the  mouth  of  the 
infernal  region.  This,  however,  must  be  a  mistake, 
inasmuch  as  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  while  we  remained 
in  the  smoky  and  lurid  cavern,  took  occasion  to  prove 
that  Tophet  has  not  even  a  metaphorical  existence. 
The  place,  he  assured  us,  is  no  other  than  the  crater 
of  a  half-extinct  volcano,  in  which  the  directors  had 
caused  forges  to  be  set  up  for  the  manufacture  of  rail 
road  iron.  Hence,  also,  is  obtained  a  plentiful  sup 
ply  of  fuel  for  the  use  of  the  engines.  Whoever  had 
gazed  into  the  dismal  obscurity  of  the  broad  cavern 
mouth,  whence  ever  and  anon  darted  huge  tongues  of 
dusky  flame,  and  had  seen  the  strange,  half-shaped 
monsters,  and  visions  of  faces  horribly  grotesque,  into 
which  the  smoke  seemed  to  wreathe  itself,  and  had 
heard  the  awful  murmurs,  and  shrieks,  and  deep, 


222          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

shuddering  whispers  of  the  blast,  sometimes  forming 
themselves  into  words  almost  articulate,  would  have 
seized  upon  Mr.  Smooth-it-away's  comfortable  expla 
nation  as  greedily  as  we  did.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
cavern,  moreover,  were  unlovely  personages,  dark, 
smoke-begrimed,  generally  deformed,  with  misshapen 
feet,  and  a  glow  of  dusky  redness  in  their  eyes  as  if 
their  hearts  had  caught  fire  and  were  blazing  out  of 
the  upper  windows.  It  struck  me  as  a  peculiarity 
that  the  laborers  at  the  forge  and  those  who  brought 
fuel  to  the  engine,  when  they  began  to  draw  short 
breath,  positively  emitted  smoke  from  their  mouth  and 
nostrils. 

Among  the  idlers  about  the  train,  most  of  whom 
were  puffing  cigars  which  they  had  lighted  at  the 
flame  of  the  crater,  I  was  perplexed  to  notice  several 
who,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  had  heretofore  set  forth 
by  railroad  for  the  Celestial  City.  They  looked  dark, 
wild,  and  smoky,  with  a  singular  resemblance,  indeed, 
to  the  native  inhabitants,  like  whom,  also,  they  had 
a  disagreeable  propensity  to  ill-natured  gibes  and 
sneers,  the  habit  of  which  had  wrought  a  settled  con 
tortion  of  their  visages.  Having  been  on  speaking 
terms  with  one  of  these  persons,  —  an  indolent,  good- 
for-nothing  fellow,  who  went  by  the  name  of  Take-it- 
easy,  —  I  called  him,  and  inquired  what  was  his  busi 
ness  there. 

"Did  you  not  start,"  said  I,  "for  the  Celestial 
City?" 

"  That 's  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Take-it-easy,  carelessly 
puffing  some  smoke  into  my  eyes.  "  But  I  heard  such 
bad  accounts  that  I  never  took  pains  to  climb  the  hill 
on  which  the  city  stands.  No  business  doing,  no  fun 
going  on,  nothing  to  drink,  and  no  smoking  allowed, 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  223 

and  a  thrumming  of  church  music  from  morning  till 
night.  I  would  not  stay  in  such  a  place  if  they  offered 
me  house  room  and  living  free." 

"But,  my  good  Mr.  Take-it-easy,"  cried  I,  "why 
take  up  your  residence  here,  of  all  places  in  the 
world?"  " 

"Oh,"  said  the  loafer,  with  a  grin,  "it  is  very 
warm  hereabouts,  and  I  meet  with  plenty  of  old  ac 
quaintances,  and  altogether  the  place  suits  me.  I  hope 
to  see  you  back  again  some  day  soon.  A  pleasant 
journey  to  you." 

While  he  was  speaking  the  bell  of  the  engine  rang, 
and  we  dashed  away  after  dropping  a  few  passengers, 
but  receiving  no  new  ones.  Battling  onward  through 
the  Valley,  we  were  dazzled  with  the  fiercely  gleam 
ing  gas  lamps,  as  before.  But  sometimes,  in  the  dark 
of  intense  brightness,  grim  faces,  that  bore  the  aspect 
and  expression  of  individual  sins,  or  evil  passions, 
seemed  to  thrust  themselves  through  the  veil  of  light, 
glaring  upon  us,  and  stretching  forth  a  great,  dusky 
hand,  as  if  to  impede  our  progress.  I  almost  thought 
that  they  were  my  own  sins  that  appalled  me  there. 
These  were  freaks  of  imagination  —  nothing  more, 
certainly — mere  delusions,  which  I  ought  to  be  heart 
ily  ashamed  of ;  but  all  through  the  Dark  Valley  I 
was  tormented,  and  pestered,  and  dolefully  bewildered 
with  the  same  kind  of  waking  dreams.  The  mephitic 
gases  of  that  region  intoxicate  the  brain.  As  the 
light  of  natural  day,  however,  began  to  struggle  with 
the  glow  of  the  lanterns,  these  vain  imaginations  lost 
their  vividness,  and  finally  vanished  with  the  first  ray 
of  sunshine  that  greeted  our  escape  from  the  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  of  Death.  Ere  we  had  gone  a  mile  be 
yond  it  I  could  wellnigh  have  taken  my  oath  that  this 
whole  gloomy  passage  was  a  dream. 


224          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

At  the  end  of  the  valley,  as  John  Bunyan  mentions, 
is  a  cavern,  where,  in  his  days,  dwelt  two  cruel  giants, 
Pope  and  Pagan,  who  had  strown  the  ground  about 
their  residence  with  the  bones  of  slaughtered  pilgrims. 
These  vile  old  troglodytes  are  no  longer  there;  but 
into  their  deserted  cave  another  terrible  giant  has 
thrust  himself,  and  makes  it  his  business  to  seize  upon 
honest  travellers  and  fatten  them  for  his  table  with 
plentiful  meals  of  smoke,  mist,  moonshine,  raw  pota 
toes,  and  sawdust.  He  is  a  German  by  birth,  and  is 
called  Giant  Transcendentalist ;  but  as  to  his  form, 
his  features,  his  substance,  and  his  nature  generally, 
it  is  the  chief  peculiarity  of  this  huge  miscreant  that 
neither  he  for  himself,  nor  anybody  for  him,  has  ever 
been  able  to  describe  them.  As  we  rushed  by  the 
cavern's  mouth  we  caught  a  hasty  glimpse  of  him, 
looking  somewhat  like  an  ill-proportioned  figure,  but 
considerably  more  like  a  heap  of  fog  and  duskiness. 
He  shouted  after  us,  but  in  so  strange  a  phraseology 
that  we  knew  not  what  he  meant,  nor  whether  to  be 
encouraged  or  affrighted. 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  the  train  thundered  into 
the  ancient  city  of  Vanity,  where  Vanity  Fair  is  still 
at  the  height  of  prosperity,  and  exhibits  an  epitome  of 
whatever  is  brilliant,  gay,  and  fascinating  beneath  the 
sun.  As  I  purposed  to  make  a  considerable  stay  here, 
it  gratified  me  to  learn  that  there  is  no  longer  the 
want  of  harmony  between  the  town's-people  and  pil 
grims,  which  impelled  the  former  to  such  lamentably 
mistaken  measures  as  the  persecution  of  Christian  and 
the  fiery  martyrdom  of  Faithful.  On  the  contrary,  as 
the  new  railroad  brings  with  it  great  trade  and  a  con 
stant  influx  of  strangers,  the  lord  of  Vanity  Fair  is  ita 
chief  patron,  and  the  capitalists  of  the  city  are  among 


THE   CELESTIAL   RAILROAD.  225 

the  largest  stockholders.  Many  passengers  stop  to  take 
their  pleasure  or  make  their  profit  in  the  Fair,  instead 
of  going  onward  to  the  Celestial  City.  Indeed,  such 
are  the  charms  of  the  place  that  people  often  affirm 
it  to  be  the  true  and  only  heaven ;  stoutly  contending 
that  there  is  no  other,  that  those  who  seek  further  are 
mere  dreamers,  and  that,  if  the  fabled  brightness  of 
the  Celestial  City  lay  but  a  bare  mile  beyond  the  gates 
of  Vanity,  they  would  not  be  fools  enough  to  go  thither. 
Without  subscribing  to  these  perhaps  exaggerated  en 
comiums,  I  can  truly  say  that  my  abode  in  the  city  wag 
mainly  agreeable,  and  my  intercourse  with  the  inhabi« 
tants  productive  of  much  amusement  and  instruction. 

Being  naturally  of  a  serious  turn,  my  attention  wa? 
directed  to  the  solid  advantages  derivable  from  a  resi 
dence  here,  rather  than  to  the  effervescent  pleasures 
which  are  the  grand  object  with  too  many  visitants^ 
The  Christian  reader,  if  he  have  had  no  accounts  of 
the  city  later  than  Bunyan's  time,  will  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  almost  every  street  has  its  church,  and  that 
the  reverend  clergy  are  nowhere  held  in  higher  re 
spect  than  at  Vanity  Fair.  And  well  do  they  deserve 
such  honorable  estimation  ;  for  the  maxims  of  wisdom 
and  virtue  which  fall  from  their  lips  come  from  as 
deep  a  spiritual  source,  and  tend  to  as  lofty  a  religious 
aim,  as  those  of  the  sagest  philosophers  of  old.  In 
justification  of  this  high  praise  I  need  only  mention  the 
names  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Shallow-deep,  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Stumble-at-truth,  that  fine  old  clerical  character  the 
Rev.,  Mr.  This-to-day,  who  expects  shortly  to  resign  his 
pulpit  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  That-to-morrow ;  together  with 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Bewilderment,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clog-the- 
spirit,  and,  last  and  greatest,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wind-of- 
doctrine.  The  labors  of  these  eminent  divines  are 

VOL.  ii.  15 


226          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

aided  by  those  of  innumerable  lecturers,  who  diffuse 
such  a  various  profundity,  in  all  subjects  of  human  or 
celestial  science,  that  any  man  may  acquire  an  omnig- 
enous  erudition  without  the  trouble  of  even  learning  to 
read.  Thus  literature  is  etherealized  by  assuming  for 
its  medium  the  human  voice ;  and  knowledge,  depos 
iting  all  its  heavier  particles,  except,  doubtless,  its 
gold,  becomes  exhaled  into  a  sound,  which  forthwith 
steals  into  the  ever-open  ear  of  the  community.  These 
ingenious  methods  constitute  a  sort  of  machinery,  by 
which  thought  and  study  are  done  to  every  person's 
hand  without  his  putting  himself  to  the  slightest  incon 
venience  in  the  matter.  There  is  another  species  of 
machine  for  the  wholesale  manufacture  of  individual 
morality.  This  excellent  result  is  effected  by  societies 
for  all  manner  of  virtuous  purposes,  with  which  a  man 
has  merely  to  connect  himself,  throwing,  as  it  were,  his 
quota  of  virtue  into  the  common  stock,  and  the  presi 
dent  and  directors  will  take  care  that  the  aggregate 
amount  be  well  applied.  All  these,  and  other  won 
derful  improvements  in  ethics,  religion,  and  literature, 
being  made  plain  to  my  comprehension  by  the  in 
genious  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  inspired  me  with  a  vast 
admiration  of  Vanity  Fair. 

It  would  fill  a  volume,  in  an  age  of  pamphlets, 
were  I  to  record  all  my  observations  in  this  great 
capital  of  human  business  and  pleasure.  There  was 
an  unlimited  range  of  society  —  the  powerful,  the 
wise,  the  witty,  and  the  famous  in  every  walk  of  life ; 
princes,  presidents,  poets,  generals,  artists,  actors,  and 
philanthropists,  —  all  making  their  own  market  at  the 
fair,  and  deeming  no  price  too  exorbitant  for  such 
commodities  as  hit  their  fancy.  It  was  well  worth 
one's  while,  even  if  he  had  no  idea  of  buying  or  selJr 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  227 

ing,  to   loiter  through   the  bazaars   and   observe   the 
various  sorts  of  traffic  that  were  going  forward. 

Some  of  the  purchasers,  I  thought,  made  very  fool 
ish  bargains.  For  instance,  a  young  man  having  in 
herited  a  splendid  fortune,  laid  out  a  considerable  por 
tion  of  it  in  the  purchase  of  diseases,  and  finally  spent 
all  the  rest  for  a  heavy  lot  of  repentance  and  a  suit  of 
rags.  A  very  pretty  girl  bartered  a  heart  as  clear  as 
crystal,  and  which  seemed  her  most  valuable  posses 
sion,  for  another  jewel  of  the  same  kind,  but  so  worn 
and  defaced  as  to  be  utterly  worthless.  In  one  shop 
there  were  a  great  many  crowns  of  laurel  and  myrtle, 
which  soldiers,  authors,  statesmen,  and  various  other 
people  pressed  eagerly  to  buy ;  some  purchased  these 
paltry  wreaths  with  their  lives,  others  by  a  toilsome 
servitude  of  years,  and  many  sacrificed  whatever 
was  most  valuable,  yet  finally  slunk  away  without 
the  crown.  There  was  a  sort  of  stock  or  scrip,  called 
Conscience,  which  seemed  to  be  in  great  demand,  and 
would  purchase  almost  anything.  Indeed,  few  rich 
commodities  were  to  be  obtained  without  paying  a 
heavy  sum  in  this  particular  stock,  and  a  man's  bus 
iness  was  seldom  very  lucrative  unless  he  knew  pre 
cisely  when  and  how  to  throw  his  hoard  of  conscience 
into  the  market.  Yet  as  this  stock  was  the  only  thing 
of  permanent  value,  whoever  parted  with  it  was  sure  to 
find  himself  a  loser  in  the  long  run.  Several  of  the 
speculations  were  of  a  questionable  character.  Occa 
sionally  a  member  of  Congress  recruited  his  pocket  by 
the  sale  of  his  constituents ;  and  I  was  assured  that  ./ 
public  officers  have  often  sold  their  country  at  very 
moderate  prices.  Thousands  sold  their  happiness  for 
&  whim.  Gilded  chains  were  in  great  demand,  and 
purchased  with  almost  any  sacrifice.  In  truth,  those 


228          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

who  desired,  according  to  the  old  adage,  to  sell  any. 
thing  valuable  for  a  song,  might  find  customers  all 
over  the  Fair ;  and  there  were  innumerable  messes  of 
pottage,  piping  hot,  for  such  as  chose  to  buy  them 
with  their  birthrights.  A  few  articles,  however,  could 
not  be  found  genuine  at  Vanity  Fair.  If  a  customer 
wished  to  renew  his  stock  of  youth  the  dealers  offered 
him  a  set  of  false  teeth  and  an  auburn  wig ;  if  he  de 
manded  peace  of  mind,  they  recommended  opium  01  a 
brandy  bottle. 

Tracts  of  land  and  golden  mansions,  situate  in  the 
Celestial  City,  were  often  exchanged,  at  very  disadvan 
tageous  rates,  for  a  few  years'  lease  of  small,  dismal, 
inconvenient  tenements  in  Vanity  Fair.  Prince  Beel 
zebub  himself  took  great  interest  in  this  sort  of  traffic, 
and  sometimes  condescended  to  meddle  with  smaller 
matters.  I  once  had  the  pleasure  to  see  him  bargain 
ing  with  a  miser  for  his  soul,  which,  after  much  in 
genious  skirmishing  on  both  sides,  his  highness  suc 
ceeded  in  obtaining  at  about  the  value  of  sixpence. 
The  prince  remarked  with  a  smile,  that  he  was  a  loser 
by  the  transaction. 

Day  after  day,  as  I  walked  the  streets  of  Vanity,  my 
manners  and  deportment  became  more  and  more  like 
those  of  the  inhabitants.  The  place  began  to  seem 
like  home ;  the  idea  of  pursuing  my  travels  to  the 
Celestial  City  was  almost  obliterated  from  my  mind. 
I  was  reminded  of  it,  however,  by  the  sight  of  the  same 
pair  of  simple  pilgrims  at  whom  we  had  laughed  so 
heartily  when  Apollyon  puffed  smoke  and  steam  into 
their  faces  at  the  commencement  of  our  journey. 
There  they  stood  amidst  the  densest  bustle  of  Vanity ; 
the  dealers  offering  them  their  purple  and  fine  linen 
and  jewels,  the  men  of  wit  and  humor  gibing  at  them, 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  229 

a  pair  of  buxom  ladies  ogling  them  askance,  while  the 
benevolent  Mr.  Smooth-it-away  whispered  some  of  his 
wisdom  at  their  elbows,  and  pointed  to  a  newly-erected 
temple  ;  but  there  were  these  worthy  simpletons,  mak 
ing  the  scene  look  wild  and  monstrous,  merely  by  their 
sturdy  repudiation  of  all  part  in  its  business  or  pleas 
ures. 

One  of  them — his  name  was  Stick-to-the-right — 
perceived  in  my  face,  I  suppose,  a  species  of  sympathy 
and  almost  admiration,  which,  to  my  own  great  sur* 
prise,  I  could  not  help  feeling  for  this  pragmatic  couple. 
It  prompted  him  to  address  me. 

"  Sir,"  inquired  he,  with  a  sad,  yet  mild  and  kindly 
voice,  "  do  you  call  yourself  a  pilgrim  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  my  right  to  that  appellation  is 
indubitable.  I  am  merely  a  sojourner  here  in  Vanity 
Fair,  being  bound  to  the  Celestial  City  by  the  new  rail 
road." 

"  Alas,  friend,"  rejoined  Mr.  Stick-to-the-right,  "I 
do  assure  you,  and  beseech  you  to  receive  the  truth  of 
my  words,  that  that  whole  concern  is  a  bubble.  You 
may  travel  on  it  all  your  lifetime,  were  you  to  live 
thousands  of  years,  and  yet  never  get  beyond  the 
limits  of  Vanity  Fair.  Yea,  though  you  should  deem 
yourself  entering  the  gates  of  the  blessed  city,  it  will 
be  nothing  but  a  miserable  delusion." 

"  The  Lord  of  the  Celestial  City,"  began  the  other 
pilgrim,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Foot-it-to-heaven,  "  has 
refused,  and  will  ever  refuse,  to  grant  an  act  of  in 
corporation  for  this  railroad ;  and  unless  that  be  ob 
tained,  no  passenger  can  ever  hope  to  enter  his  domin 
ions.  Wherefore  every  man  who  buys  a  ticket  must 
lay  his  account  with  losing  the  purchase  money,  which 
is  the  value  of  his  own  soul." 


230          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Poh,  nonsense ! "  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  taking 
my  arm  and  leading  me  off,  "  these  fellows  ought  to 
be  indicted  for  a  libel.  If  the  law  stood  as  it  once  did 
in  Vanity  Fair  we  should  see  them  grinning  through 
the  iron  bars  of  the  prison  window." 

This  incident  made  a  considerable  impression  on  my 
mind,  and  contributed  with  other  circumstances  to  in 
dispose  me  to  a  permanent  residence  in  the  city  of 
Vanity ;  although,  of  course,  I  was  not  simple  enough 
to  give  up  my  original  plan  of  gliding  along  easily  and 
commodiously  by  railroad.  Still,  I  grew  anxious  to 
be  gone.  There  was  one  strange  thing  that  troubled 
me.  Amid  the  occupations  or  amusements  of  the 
Fair,  nothing  was  more  common  than  for  a  person  — 
whether  at  feast,  theatre,  or  church,  or  trafficking  for 
wealth  and  honors,  or  whatever  he  might  be  doing, 
and  however  unseasonable  the  interruption  —  suddenly 
to  vanish  like  a  soap  bubble,  and  be  never  more  seen 
of  his  fellows  ;  and  so  accustomed  were  the  latter  to 
such  little  accidents  that  they  went  on  with  their  bus 
iness  as  quietly  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  But  it 
was  otherwise  with  me. 

Finally,  after  a  pretty  long  residence  at  the  Fair, 
I  resumed  my  journey  towards  the  Celestial  City,  still 
with  Mr.  Smooth-it-away  at  my  side.  At  a  short  dis 
tance  beyond  the  suburbs  of  Vanity  we  passed  the  an 
cient  silver  mine,  of  which  Demas  was  the  first  discov 
erer,  and  which  is  now  wrought  to  great  advantage, 
supplying  nearly  all  the  coined  currency  of  the  world. 
A  little  further  onward  was  the  spot  where  Lot's  wife 
had  stood  forever  under  the  semblance  of  a  pillar  of 
salt.  Curious  travellers  have  long  since  carried  it 
away  piecemeal.  Had  all  regrets  been  punished  as 
rigorously  as  this  poor  dame's  were,  my  yearning  fof 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  231 

khe  relinquished  delights  of  Vanity  Fair  might  have 
produced  a  similar  change  in  my  own  corporeal  sub 
stance,  and  left  me  a  warning  to  future  pilgrims. 

The  next  remarkable  object  was  a  large  edifice,  con 
structed  of  mossgrown  stone,  but  in  a  modern  and  airy 
style  of  architecture.  The  engine  came  to  a  pause  in 
its  vicinity,  with  the  usual  tremendous  shriek. 

"  This  was  formerly  the  castle  of  the  redoubted 
giant  Despair,"  observed  Mr.  Smooth-it-away ;  "  but 
since  his  death  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  has  repaired  it,  and 
keeps  an  excellent  house  of  entertainment  here.  It  is 
one  of  our  stopping-places." 

"  It  seems  but  slightly  put  together,"  remarked  I, 
looking  at  the  frail  yet  ponderous  walls.  "  I  do  not 
envy  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  his  habitation.  Some  day  it 
will  thunder  down  upon  the  heads  of  the  occupants." 

"We  shall  escape  at  all  events,"  said  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away,  "  for  Apollyon  is  putting  on  the  steam  again." 

The  road  now  plunged  into  a  gorge  of  the  Delecta 
ble  Mountains,  and  traversed  the  field  where  in  former 
ages  the  blind  men  wandered  and  stumbled  among  the 
tombs.  One  of  these  ancient  tombstones  had  been 
thrust  across  the  track  by  some  malicious  person,  and 
gave  the  train  of  cars  a  terrible  jolt.  Far  up  the 
rugged  side  of  a  mountain  I  perceived  a  rusty  iron 
door,  half  overgrown  with  bushes  and  creeping  plants, 
but  with  smoke  issuing  from  its  crevices. 

"Is  that,"  inquired  I,  "the  very  door  in  the  hill-side 
which  the  shepherds  assured  Christian  was  a  by-way  to 
hell?" 

"  That  was  a  joke  on  the  part  of  the  shepherds," 
said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  with  a  smile.  "  It  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  door  of  a  cavern  which  they 
use  as  a  smoke-house  for  the  preparation  of  mutton 
hams." 


232  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

My  recollections  of  the  journey  are  now,  for  a  little 
space,  dim  and  confused,  inasmuch  as  a  singular  drow 
siness  here  overcame  me,  owing  to  the  fact  that  we 
were  passing  over  the  enchanted  ground,  the  air  of 
which  encourages  a  disposition  to  sleep.  I  awoke, 
however,  as  soon  as  we  crossed  the  borders  of  the 
pleasant  land  of  Beulah.  All  the  passengers  were 
rubbing  their  eyes,  comparing  watches,  and  congratu 
lating  one  another  on  the  prospect  of  arriving  so  sea 
sonably  at  the  journey's  end.  The  sweet  breezes  of 
this  happy  clime  came  refreshingly  to  our  nostrils ; 
we  beheld  the  glimmering  gush  of  silver  fountains, 
overhung  by  trees  of  beautiful  foliage  and  delicious 
fruit,  which  were  propagated  by  grafts  from  the  celes 
tial  gardens.  Once,  as  we  dashed  onward  like  a  hur 
ricane,  there  was  a  flutter  of  wings  and  the  bright 
appearance  of  an  angel  in  the  air,  speeding  forth  on 
some  heavenly  mission.  The  engine  now  announced 
the  close  vicinity  of  the  final  station-house  by  one  last 
and  horrible  scream,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  dis 
tinguishable  every  kind  of  wailing  and  woe,  and  bitter 
fierceness  of  wrath,  all  mixed  up  with  the  wild  laugh 
ter  of  a  devil  or  a  madman.  Throughout  our  journey, 
at  every  stopping-place,  Apollyon  had  exercised  his 
ingenuity  in  screwing  the  most  abominable  sounds  out 
of  the  whistle  of  the  steam-engine  ;  but  in  this  closing 
effort  he  outdid  himself  and  created  an  infernal  up 
roar,  which,  besides  disturbing  the  peaceful  inhabi 
tants  of  Beulah,  must  have  sent  its  discord  even 
through  the  celestial  gates. 

While  the  horrid  clamor  was  still  ringing  in  our 
cars  we  heard  an  exulting  strain,  as  if  a  thousand  in 
struments  of  music,  with  height  and  depth  and  sweet 
ness  in  their  tones,  at  once  tender  and  triumphant, 


THE   CELESTIAL  RAILROAD.  233 

were  struck  in  unison,  to  greet  the  approach  of  some 
illustrious  hero,  who  had  fought  the  good  fight  and 
won  a  glorious  victory,  and  was  come  to  lay  aside  his 
battered  arms  forever.  Looking  to  ascertain  what 
might  be  the  occasion  of  this  glad  harmony,  I  per 
ceived,  on  alighting  from  the  cars,  that  a  multitude  of 
shining  ones  had  assembled  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  to  welcome  two  poor  pilgrims,  who  were  just 
emerging  from  its  depths.  They  were  the  same  whom 
Apollyon  and  ourselves  had  persecuted  with  taunts, 
and  gibes,  and  scalding  steam,  at  the  commencement 
of  our  journey  —  the  same  whose  unworldly  aspect 
and  impressive  words  had  stirred  my  conscience  amid 
the  wild  revellers  of  Vanity  Fair. 

"  How  amazingly  well  those  men  have  got  on,"  cried 
I  to  Mr.  Smooth-it-away.  "  I  wish  we  were  secure  of 
as  good  a  reception." 

"  Never  fear,  never  fear !  "  answered  my  friend. 
"  Come,  make  haste ;  the  ferry  boat  will  be  off  di 
rectly,  and  in  three  minutes  you  will  be  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  No  doubt  you  will  find  coaches  to 
carry  you  up  to  the  city  gates." 

A  steam  ferry  boat,  the  last  improvement  on  this 
important  route,  lay  at  the  river  side,  puffing,  snort 
ing,  and  emitting  all  those  other  disagreeable  utter 
ances  which  betoken  the  departure  to  be  immediate. 
I  hurried  on  board  with  the  rest  of  the  passengers, 
most  of  whom  were  in  great  perturbation  :  some  bawl 
ing  out  for  their  baggage ;  some  tearing  their  hair  and 
exclaiming  that  the  boat  would  explode  or  sink  ;  some 
already  pale  with  the  heaving  of  the  stream ;  some  gaz 
ing  affrighted  at  the  ugly  aspect  of  the  steersman  ;  and 
some  still  dizzy  with  the  slumberous  influences  of  the 
Enchanted  Ground.  Looking  back  to  the  shore,  I  was 


234  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

amazed  to  discern  Mr.  Smooth-it-away  waving  his  hand 
in  token  of  farewell. 

"  Don't  you  go  over  to  the  Celestial  City  ?  "  ex 
claimed  I. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  answered  he  with  a  queer  smile,  and 
that  same  disagreeable  contortion  of  visage  which  I 
had  remarked  in  the  inhabitants  of  the  Dark  Valley* 
"  Oh,  no !  I  have  come  thus  far  only  for  the  sake  of 
your  pleasant  company.  Good-by !  We  shall  meet 
again." 

And  then  did  my  excellent  friend  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away  laugh  outright,  in  the  midst  of  which  cachinna- 
tion  a  smoke-wreath  issued  from  his  mouth  and  nos 
trils,  while  a  twinkle  of  lurid  flame  darted  out  of 
either  eye,  proving  indubitably  that  his  heart  was  all 
of  a  red  blaze.  The  impudent  fiend !  To  deny  the 
existence  of  Tophet,  when  he  felt  its  fiery  tortures  rag 
ing  within  his  breast.  I  rushed  to  the  side  of  the 
boat,  intending  to  fling  myself  on  shore ;  but  the 
wheels,  as  they  began  their  revolutions,  threw  a  dash 
of  spray  over  me  so  cold — so  deadly  cold,  with  the 
chill  that  will  never  leave  those  waters  until  Death  be 
drowned  in  his  own  river  —  that  with  a  shiver  and 
a  heartquake  I  awoke.  Thank  Heaven  it  was  a 
Dream  I 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE. 

LIFE  figures  itself  to  me  as  a  festal  or  funereal  pro 
cession.  All  of  us  have  our  places,  and  are  to  move 
onward  under  the  direction  of  the  Chief  Marshal. 
The  grand  difficulty  results  from  the  invariably  mis 
taken  principles  on  which  the  deputy  marshals  seek  to 
arrange  this  immense  concourse  of  people,  so  much 
more  numerous  than  those  that  train  their  intermin 
able  length  through  streets  and  highways  in  times  of 
political  excitement.  Their  scheme  is  ancient,  far  be. 
yond  the  memory  of  man  or  even  the  record  of  history, 
and  has  hitherto  been  very  little  modified  by  the  in 
nate  sense  of  something  wrong,  and  the  dim  percep 
tion  of  better  methods,  that  have  disquieted  all  the 
ages  through  which  the  procession  has  taken  its  march. 
Its  members  are  classified  by  the  merest  external  cir 
cumstances,  and  thus  are  more  certain  to  be  thrown 
out  of  their  true  positions  than  if  no  principle  of  ar 
rangement  were  attempted.  In  one  part  of  the  pro 
cession  we  see  men  of  landed  estate  or  moneyed  cap 
ital  gravely  keeping  each  other  company,  for  the  pre 
posterous  reason  that  they  chance  to  have  a  similar 
standing  in  the  tax-gatherer's  book.  Trades  and  pro 
fessions  march  together  with  scarcely  a  more  real  bond 
of  union.  In  this  manner,  it  cannot  be  denied,  people 
are  disentangled  from  the  mass  and  separated  into  va 
rious  classes  according  to  certain  apparent  relations  ; 
all  have  some  artificial  badge  which  the  world,  and 
themselves  among  the  first,  learn  to  consider  as  a  gen- 


\ 

MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

uine  characteristic.  Fixing  our  attention  on  such  out 
side  shows  of  similarity  or  difference,  we  lose  sight  of 
those  realities  by  which  nature,  fortune,  fate,  or  Prov 
idence  has  constituted  for  every  man  a  brotherhood, 
wherein  it  is  one  great  office  of  human  wisdom  to 
classify  him.  When  the  mind  has  once  accustomed 
itself  to  a  proper  arrangement  of  the  Procession  of 
Life,  or  a  true  classification  of  society,  even  though 
merely  speculative,  there  is  thenceforth  a  satisfaction 
which  pretty  well  suffices  for  itself  without  the  aid  of 
any  actual  reformation  in  the  order  of  march. 

For  instance,  assuming  to  myself  the  power  of  mar 
shalling  the  aforesaid  procession,  I  direct  a  trumpeter 
to  send  forth  a  blast  loud  enough  to  be  heard  from 
hence  to  China ;  and  a  herald,  with  world-pervading 
voice,  to  make  proclamation  for  a  certain  class  of  mor 
tals  to  take  their  places.  What  shall  be  their  prin 
ciple  of  union  ?  After  all,  an  external  one,  in  com 
parison  with  many  that  might  be  found,  yet  far  more 
real  than  those  which  the  world  has  selected  for  a 
similar  purpose.  Let  all  who  are  afflicted  with  like 
physical  diseases  form  themselves  into  ranks. 

Our  first  attempt  at  classification  is  not  very  success 
ful.  It  may  gratify  the  pride  of  aristocracy  to  reflect 
that  disease,  more  than  any  other  circumstance  of  hu 
man  life,  pays  due  observance  to  the  distinctions  which 
rank  and  wealth,  and  poverty  and  lowliness,  have 
established  among  mankind.  Some  maladies  are  rich 
and  precious,  and  only  to  be  acquired  by  the  right  of 
inheritance  or  purchased  with  gold.  Of  this  kind  is 
the  gout,  which  serves  as  a  bond  of  brotherhood  to 
the  purple- visaged  gentry,  who  obey  the  herald's  voice, 
and  painfully  hobble  from  all  civilized  regions  of  the 
globe  to  take  their  post  in  the  grand  procession.  IB 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE.  237 

mercy  to  their  toes,  let  us  hope  that  the  march  may 
not  be  long.  The  Dyspeptics,  too,  are  people  of  good 
standing  in  the  world.  For  them  the  earliest  salmon 
is  caught  in  our  eastern  rivers,  and  the  shy  woodcock 
stains  the  dry  leaves  with  his  blood  in  his  remotest 
haunts,  and  the  turtle  comes  from  the  far  Pacific  Isl 
ands  to  be  gobbled  up  in  soup.  They  can  afford  to 
flavor  all  their  dishes  with  indolence,  which,  in  spite 
of  the  general  opinion,  is  a  sauce  more  exquisitely 
piquant  than  appetite  won  by  exercise.  Apoplexy  is 
another  highly  respectable  disease.  We  will  rank 
together  all  who  have  the  symptom  of  dizziness  in  the 
brain,  and  as  fast  as  any  drop  by  the  way  supply 
their  places  with  new  members  of  the  board  of  alder 
men. 

On  the  other  hand,  here  come  whole  tribes  of  people 
whose  physical  lives  are  but  a  deteriorated  variety  of 
life,  and  themselves  a  meaner  species  of  mankind ;  so 
sad  an  effect  has  been  wrought  by  the  tainted  breath 
of  cities,  scanty  and  unwholesome  food,  destructive 
modes  of  labor,  and  the  lack  of  those  moral  supports 
that  might  partially  have  counteracted  such  bad  in 
fluences.  Behold  here  a  train  of  house  painters,  all 
afflicted  with  a  peculiar  sort  of  colic.  Next  in  place 
we  will  marshal  those  workmen  in  cutlery,  who  have 
breathed  a  fatal  disorder  into  their  lungs  with  the  im 
palpable  dust  of  steel.  Tailors  and  shoemakers,  being 
sedentary  men,  will  chiefly  congregate  into  one  part 
of  the  procession  and  march  under  similar  banners  of 
disease ;  but  among  them  we  may  observe  here  and 
there  a  sickly  student,  who  has  left  his  health  between 
the  leaves  of  classic  volumes  ;  and  clerks,  likewise,  who 
have  caught  their  deaths  on  high  official  stools  ;  and 
Uieu  of  genius  too,  who  have  written  sheet  after  sheet 


238          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

with  pens  dipped  in  their  heart's  blood.  These  are  a 
wretched,  quaking,  short-breathed  set.  But  what  is 
this  cloud  of  pale-cheeked,  slender  girls,  who  disturb 
the  ear  with  the  multiplicity  of  their  short,  dry  coughs? 
They  are  seamstresses,  who  have  plied  the  daily  and 
nightly  needle  in  the  service  of  master  tailors  and 
close-fisted  contractors,  until  now  it  is  almost  time  for 
each  to  hem  the  borders  of  her  own  shroud.  Con 
sumption  points  their  place  in  the  procession.  With 
their  sad  sisterhood  are  intermingled  many  youthful 
maidens  who  have  sickened  in  aristocratic  mansions, 
and  for  whose  aid  science  has  unavailingly  searched 
its  volumes,  and  whom  breathless  love  has  watched. 
In  our  ranks  the  rich  maiden  and  the  poor  seamstress 
may  walk  arm  in  arm.  We  might  find  innumerable 
other  instances,  where  the  bond  of  mutual  disease  — 
not  to  speak  of  nation-sweeping  pestilence  —  embraces 
high  and  low,  and  makes  the  king  a  brother  of  the 
clown.  But  it  is  not  hard  to  own  that  disease  is  the 
natural  aristocrat.  Let  him  keep  his  state,  and  have 
his  established  orders  of  rank,  and  wear  his  royal 
mantle  of  the  color  of  a  fever  flush;  and  let  the 
noble  and  wealthy  boast  their  own  physical  infirmi 
ties,  and  display  their  symptoms  as  the  badges  of 
high  station.  All  things  considered,  these  are  as 
proper  subjects  of  human  pride  as  any  relations  of 
human  rank  that  men  can  fix  upon. 

Sound  again,  thou  deep-breathed  trumpeter!  and 
herald,  with  thy  voice  of  might,  shout  forth  another 
summons  that  shall  reach  the  old  baronial  castles  of 
Europe,  and  the  rudest  cabin  of  our  western  wilder 
ness  !  What  class  is  next  to  take  its  place  in  the  pro 
cession  of  mortal  life?  Let  it  be  those  whom  the 
gifts  of  intellect  have  united  in  a  noble  brotherhood. 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE.  239 

Ay,  this  is  a  reality,  before  which  the  conventional 
distinctions  of  society  melt  away  like  a  vapor  when  we 
would  grasp  it  with  the  hand.  Were  Byron  now  alive, 
and  Burns,  the  first  would  come  from  his  ancestral  ab 
bey,  flinging  aside,  although  unwillingly,  the  inherited 
honors  of  a  thousand  years,  to  take  the  arm  of  the 
mighty  peasant  who  grew  immortal  while  he  stooped 
behind  his  plough.  These  are  gone ;  but  the  hall,  the 
farmer's  fireside,  the  hut,  perhaps  the  palace,  the  count 
ing-room,  the  workshop,  the  village,  the  city,  life's  high 
places  and  low  ones,  may  all  produce  their  poets,  whom 
a  common  temperament  pervades  like  an  electric  sym 
pathy.  Peer  or  ploughman,  we  will  muster  them  pair 
by  pair  and  shoulder  to  shoulder.  Even  society,  in 
its  most  artificial  state,  consents  to  this  arrangement. 
These  factory  girls  from  Lowell  shall  mate  themselves 
with  the  pride  of  drawing-rooms  and  literary  circles, 
the  bluebells  in  fashion's  nosegay,  the  Sapphos,  and 
Montagues,  and  Nortons  of  the  age.  Other  modes  of 
intellect  bring  together  as  strange  companies.  Silk- 
gowned  professor  of  languages,  give  your  arm  to  this 
sturdy  blacksmith,  and  deem  yourself  honored  by  the 
conjunction,  though  you  behold  him  grimy  from  the 
anvil.  All  varieties  of  human  speech  are  like  his 
mother  tongue  to  this  rare  man.  Indiscriminately  let 
those  take  their  places,  of  whatever  rank  they  come, 
who  possess  the  kingly  gifts  to  lead  armies  or  to  sway 
a  people  —  Nature's  generals,  her  lawgivers,  her  kings, 
and  with  them  also  the  deep  philosophers  who  think 
the  thought  in  one  generation  that  is  to  revolutionize 
society  in  the  next.  With  the  hereditary  legislator 
in  whom  eloquence  is  a  far-descended  attainment  — 
a  rich  echo  repeated  by  powerful  voices  from  Cicero 
downward  —  we  will  match  some  wondrous  backwoods- 


240          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE, 

man,  who  has  caught  a  wild  power  of  language  from 
the  breeze  among  his  native  forest  boughs.  But  we 
may  safely  leave  these  brethren  and  sisterhood  to  settle 
their  own  congenialities.  Our  ordinary  distinctions 
become  so  trifling,  so  impalpable,  so  ridiculously  vis 
ionary,  in  comparison  with  a  classification  founded  on 
truth,  that  all  talk  about  the  matter  is  immediately 
a  common  place. 

Yet  the  longer  I  reflect  the  less  am  I  satisfied  with 
the  idea  of  forming  a  separate  class  of  mankind  on 
the  basis  of  high  intellectual  power.  At  best  it  is 
but  a  higher  development  of  innate  gifts  common  to 
all.  Perhaps,  moreover,  he  whose  genius  appears 
deepest  and  truest  excels  his  fellows  in  nothing  save 
the  knack  of  expression  ;  he  throws  out  occasionally  a 
lucky  hint  at  truths  of  which  every  human  soul  is  pro 
foundly,  though  unutterably,  conscious.  Therefore., 
though  we  suffer  the  brotherhood  of  intellect  to  march 
onward  together,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  their  pe 
culiar  relation  will  not  begin  to  vanish  as  soon  as  the 
procession  shall  have  passed  beyond  the  circle  of  this 
present  world.  But  we  do  not  classify  for  eternity. 

And  next,  let  the  trumpet  pour  forth  a  funereal 
wail,  and  the  herald's  voice  give  breath  in  one  vast 
ery  to  all  the  groans  and  grievous  utterances  that  are 
audible  throughout  the  earth.  We  appeal  now  to  the 
sacred  bond  of  sorrow,  and  summon  the  great  multi 
tude  who  labor  under  similar  afflictions  to  take  their 
places  in  the  march. 

How  many  a  heart  that  would  have  been  insensible 
to  any  other  call  has  responded  to  the  doleful  accents 
of  that  voice !  It  has  gone  far  and  wide,  and  high  and 
low,  and  left  scarcely  a  mortal  roof  un visited  Indeed, 
the  principle  is  only  too  universal  for  our  purpose,  and, 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE.  241 

nnless  we  limit  it,  will  quite  break  up  our  classification 
of  mankind,  and  convert  the  whole  procession  into  a 
funeral  train.  We  will  therefore  be  at  some  pains  to 
discriminate.  Here  comes  a  lonely  rich  man  ;  he  has 
built  a  noble  fabric  for  his  dwelling-house,  with  a  front 
of  stately  architecture  and  marble  floors  and  doors  of 
precious  woods  ;  the  whole  structure  is  as  beautiful  as 
a  dream  and  as  substantial  as  the  native  rock.  But  the 
visionary  shapes  of  a  long  posterity,  for  whose  home 
this  mansion  was  intended,  have  faded  into  nothingness 
since  the  death  of  the  founder's  only  son.  The  rich 
man  gives  a  glance  at  his  sable  garb  in  one  of  the 
splendid  mirrors  of  his  drawing-room,  and  descending 
a  flight  of  lofty  steps  instinctively  offers  his  arm  to 
yonder  poverty  stricken  widow  in  the  rusty  black  bon 
net,  and  with  a  check  apron  over  her  patched  gown. 
The  sailor  boy,  who  was  her  sole  earthly  stay,  was 
washed  overboard  in  a  late  tempest.  This  couple 
from  the  palace  and  the  almshouse  are  but  the  types 
of  thousands  more  who  represent  the  dark  tragedy  of 
life  and  seldom  quarrel  for  the  upper  parts.  Grief  is 
such  a  leveller,  with  its  own  dignity  and  its  own  hu 
mility,  that  the  noble  and  the  peasant,  the  beggar  and 
the  monarch,  will  waive  their  pretensions  to  external 
rank  without  the  officiousness  of  interference  on  our 
part.  If  pride  —  the  influence  of  the  world's  false  dis 
tinctions  —  remain  in  the  heart,  then  sorrow  lacks  the 
earnestness  which  makes  it  holy  and  reverend.  It 
loses  its  reality  and  becomes  a  miserable  shadow.  On 
this  ground  we  have  an  opportunity  to  assign  over 
multitudes  who  would  willingly  claim  places  here  to 
other  parts  of  the  procession.  If  the  mourner  have 
anything  dearer  than  his  grief  he  must  seek  his  true 
position  elsewhere.  There  are  so  many  unsubstantial 

VOL..    II.  16 


242          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

sorrows  which  the  necessity  of  our  mortal  state  begets 
on  idleness,  that  an  observer,  casting  aside  sentiment, 
is  sometimes  led  to  question  whether  there  be  any  real 
woe,  except  absolute  physical  suffering  and  the  loss  of 
closest  friends.  A  crowd  who  exhibit  what  they  deem 
to  be  broken  hearts  —  and  among  them  many  lovelorn 
maids  and  bachelors,  and  men  of  disappointed  ambi 
tion  in  arts  or  politics,  and  the  poor  who  were  once 
rich,  or  who  have  sought  to  be  rich  in  vain  —  the  great 
majority  of  these  may  ask  admittance  into  some  other 
fraternity.  There  is  no  room  here.  Perhaps  we  may 
institute  a  separate  class  where  such  unfortunates  will 
naturally  fall  into  the  procession.  Meanwhile  let  them 
stand  aside  and  patiently  await  their  time. 

If  our  trumpeter  can  borrow  a  note  from  the  dooms 
day  trumpet  blast,  let  him  sound  it  now.  The  dread 
alarum  should  make  the  earth  quake  to  its  centre,  for 
ihe  herald  is  about  to  address  mankind  with  a  sum 
mons  to  which  even  the  purest  mortal  may  be  sensible 
of  some  faint  responding  echo  in  his  breast.  In  many 
bosoms  it  will  awaken  a  still  small  voice  more  terrible 
than  its  own  reverberating  uproar. 

The  hideous  appeal  has  swept  around  the  globe. 
Come,  all  ye  guilty  ones,  and  rank  yourselves  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  brotherhood  of  crime.  This,  indeed, 
is  an  awful  summons.  I  almost  tremble  to  look  at  the 
strange  partnerships  that  begin  to  be  formed,  reluc 
tantly,  but  by  the  invincible  necessity  of  like  to  like  in 
this  part  of  the  procession.  A  forger  from  the  state 
prison  seizes  the  arm  of  a  distinguished  financier. 
How  indignantly  does  the  latter  plead  his  fair  reputa 
tion  upon  'Change,  and  insist  that  his  operations,  by 
their  magnificence  of  scope,  were  removed  into  quite 
another  sphere  of  morality  than  those  of  his  pitiful 


THE  PROCESSION   OF  LIFE.  243 

companion  !  But  let  him  cut  the  connection  if  he  can. 
Here  comes  a  murderer  with  his  clanking  chains,  and 
pairs  himself — horrible  to  tell — with  as  pure  and  up- 
right  a  man,  in  all  observable  respects,  as  ever  partook 
of  the  consecrated  bread  and  wine.  He  is  one  of  those, 
perchance  the  most  hopeless  of  all  sinners,  who  prac 
tise  such  an  exemplary  system  of  outward  duties,  that 
even  a  deadly  crime  may  be  hidden  from  their  own 
sight  and  remembrance,  under  this  unreal  frostwork. 
Yet  he  now  finds  his  place.  Why  do  that  pair  of 
flaunting  girls,  with  the  pert,  affected  laugh  and  the 
sly  leer  at  the  by-standers,  intrude  themselves  into  the 
same  rank  with  yonder  decorous  matron,  and  that 
somewhat  prudish  maiden?  Surely  these  poor  crea 
tures,  born  to  vice  as  their  sole  and  natural  inheri 
tance,  can  be  no  fit  associates  for  women  who  have 
been  guarded  round  about  by  all  the  proprieties  of  do 
mestic  life,  and  who  could  not  err  unless  they  first  cre 
ated  the  opportunity.  Oh,  no ;  it  must  be  merely  the 
impertinence  of  those  unblushing  hussies  ;  and  we  can 
only  wonder  how  such  respectable  ladies  should  have 
responded  to  a  summons  that  was  not  meant  for  them. 
We  shall  make  short  work  of  this  miserable  class, 
each  member  of  which  is  entitled  to  grasp  any  other 
member's  hand,  by  that  vile  degradation  wherein 
guilty  error  has  buried  all  alike.  The  foul  fiend  to 
whom  it  properly  belongs  must  relieve  us  of  our  loath 
some  task.  Let  the  bond  servants  of  sin  pass  on. 
But  neither  man  nor  woman,  in  whom  good  predomi 
nates,  will  smile  or  sneer,  nor  bid  the  Rogues'  March 
be  played,  in  derision  of  their  array.  Feeling  within 
their  breasts  a  shuddering  sympathy,  which  at  least 
gives  token  of  the  sin  that  might  have  been,  they  will 
thank  God  for  any  place  in  the  grand  procession  of 


244  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

human  existence,  save  among  those  most  wretehed 
ones.  Many,  however,  will  be  astonished  at  the  fatal 
impulse  that  drags  them  thitherward.  Nothing  is 
more  remarkable  than  the  various  deceptions  by  which 
guilt  conceals  itself  from  the  perpetrator's  conscience, 
and  oftenest,  perhaps,  by  the  splendor  of  its  garments. 
Statesmen,  rulers,  generals,  and  all  men  who  act  over 
an  extensive  sphere,  are  most  liable  to  be  deluded  in 
this  way ;  they  commit  wrong,  devastation,  and  mur 
der,  on  so  grand  a  scale,  that  it  impresses  them  as 
speculative  rather  than  actual ;  but  in  our  procession 
we  find  them  linked  in  detestable  conjunction  with  the 
meanest  criminals  whose  deeds  have  the  vulgarity  of 
petty  details.  Here  the  effect  of  circumstance  and  ac 
cident  is  done  away,  and  a  man  finds  his  rank  accord 
ing  to  the  spirit  of  his  crime,  in  whatever  shape  it  may 
have  been  developed. 

We  have  called  the  Evil ;  now  let  us  call  the  Good. 
The  trumpet's  brazen  throat  should  pour  heavenly 
music  over  the  earth,  and  the  herald's  voice  go  forth 
with  the  sweetness  of  an  angel's  accents,  as  if  to  sum 
mon  each  upright  man  to  his  reward.  But  how  is 
this  ?  Does  none  answer  to  the  call  ?  Not  one  :  for 
the  just,  the  pure,  the  true,  and  all  who  might  most 
worthily  obey  it,  shrink  sadly  back,  as  most  conscious 
of  error  and  imperfection.  Then  let  the  summons  be 
to  those  whose  pervading  principle  is  Love.  This 
classification  will  embrace  all  the  truly  good,  and 
none  in  whose  souls  there  exists  not  something  that 
may  expand  itself  into  a  heaven,  both  of  well-doing 
and  felicity. 

The  first  that  presents  himself  is  a  man  of  wealth, 
who  has  bequeathed  the  bulk  of  his  property  to  a  hos 
pital;  his  ghost,  methinks,  would  have  a  better  right 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE.  245 

here  than  his  living  body.  But  here  they  come,  the 
genuine  benefactors  of  their  race.  Some  have  wan 
dered  about  the  earth  with  pictures  of  bliss  in  their 
imagination,  and  with  hearts  that  shrank  sensitively 
from  the  idea  of  pain  and  woe,  yet  have  studied  all 
varieties  of  misery  that  human  nature  can  endure. 
The  prison,  the  insane  asylum,  the  squalid  chamber 
of  the  almshouse,  the  manufactory  where  the  demon  of 
machinery  annihilates  the  human  soul,  and  the  cotton 
field  where  God's  image  becomes  a  beast  of  burden ; 
to  these  and  every  other  scene  where  man  wrongs  or 
neglects  his  brother,  the  apostles  of  humanity  have 
penetrated.  This  missionary,  black  with  India's  burn 
ing  sunshine,  shall  give  his  arm  to  a  pale-faced  brother 
who  has  made  himself  familiar  with  the  infected  al 
leys  and  loathsome  haunts  of  vice  in  one  of  our  own 
cities.  The  generous  founder  of  a  college  shall  be  the 
partner  of  a  maiden  lady  of  narrow  substance,  one  of 
whose  good  deeds  it  has  been  to  gather  a  little  school 
of  orphan  children.  If  the  mighty  merchant  whose 
benefactions  are  reckoned  by  thousands  of  dollars 
deem  himself  worthy,  let  him  join  the  procession  with 
her  whose  love  has  proved  itself  by  watchings  at  the 
sick-bed,  and  all  those  lowly  offices  which  bring  her 
into  actual  contact  with  disease  and  wretchedness. 
And  with  those  whose  impulses  have  guided  them  to 
benevolent  actions,  we  will  rank  others  to  whom  Prov 
idence  has  assigned  a  different  tendency  and  different 
powers.  Men  who  have  spent  their  lives  in  generous 
and  holy  contemplation  for  the  human  race;  those 
who,  by  a  certain  heavenliness  of  spirit,  have  purified 
the  atmosphere  around  them,  and  thus  supplied  a  me 
dium  in  which  good  and  high  things  may  be  projected 
and  performed  —  give  to  these  a  lofty  place  among 


246  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  *fANSE. 

the  benefactors  of  mankind,  although  no  deed,  such  as 
the  world  calls  deeds,  may  be  recorded  of  them.  There 
are  some  individuals  of  whom  we  cannot  conceive  it 
proper  that  they  should  apply  their  hands  to  any 
earthly  instrument,  or  work  out  any  definite  act ;  and 
others,  perhaps  not  less  high,  to  whom  it  is  an  essen 
tial  attribute  to  labor  in  body  as  well  as  spirit  for  the 
welfare  of  their  brethren.  Thus,  if  we  find  a  spiritual 
sage  whose  unseen,  inestimable  influence  has  exalted 
the  moral  standard  of  mankind,  we  will  choose  for  his 
companion  some  poor  laborer  who  has  wrought  for  love 
in  the  potato  field  of  a  neighbor  poorer  than  himself. 

We  have  summoned  this  various  multitude  —  and, 
to  the  credit  of  our  nature,  it  is  a  large  one  —  on  the 
principle  of  Love.  It  is  singular,  nevertheless,  to  re 
mark  the  shyness  that  exists  among  many  members  of 
the  present  class,  all  of  whom  we  might  expect  to  rec 
ognize  one  another  by  the  freemasonry  of  mutual 
goodness,  and  to  embrace  like  brethren,  giving  God 
thanks  for  such  various  specimens  of  human  excel 
lence.  But  it  is  far  otherwise.  Each  sect  surrounds  its 
own  righteousness  with  a  hedge  of  thorns.  It  is  diffi 
cult  for  the  good  Christian  to  acknowledge  the  good 
Pagan  ;  almost  impossible  for  the  good  Orthodox  to 
grasp  the  hand  of  the  good  Unitarian,  leaving  to  their 
Creator  to  settle  the  matters  in  dispute,  and  giving 
their  mutual  efforts  strongly  and  trustingly  to  what 
ever  right  thing  is  too  evident  to  be  mistaken.  Then 
again,  though  the  heart  be  large,  yet  the  mind  is  often 
of  such  moderate  dimensions  as  to  be  exclusively  filled 
up  with  one  idea.  When  a  good  man  has  long  devoted 
himself  to  a  particular  kind  of  beneficence  —  to  one 
species  of  reform  —  he  is  apt  to  become  narrowed  into 
the  limits  of  the  path  wherein  he  treads,  and  to  fancy 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE.  247 

that  there  is  no  other  good  to  be  done  on  earth  but 
that  selfsame  good  to  which  he  has  put  his  hand,  and 
in  the  very  mode  that  best  suits  his  own  conceptions. 
All  else  is  worthless.  His  scheme  must  be  wrought 
out  by  the  united  strength  of  the  whole  world's  stock 
of  love,  or  the  world  is  no  longer  worthy  of  a  position 
in  the  universe.  Moreover,  powerful  Truth,  being  the 
rich  grape  juice  expressed  from  the  vineyard  of  the 
ages,  has  an  intoxicating  quality,  when  imbibed  by  any 
save  a  powerful  intellect,  and  often,  as  it  were,  impels 
the  quaffer  to  quarrel  in  his  cups.  For  such  reasons, 
strange  to  say,  it  is  harder  to  contrive  a  friendly  ar 
rangement  of  these  brethren  of  love  and  righteousness, 
in  the  procession  of  life,  than  to  unite  even  the  wicked, 
who,  indeed,  are  chained  together  by  their  crimes. 
The  fact  is  too  preposterous  for  tears,  too  lugubrious 
for  laughter. 

But,  let  good  men  push  and  elbow  one  another  as 
they  may  during  their  earthly  march,  all  will  be  peace 
among  them  when  the  honorable  array  of  their  proces 
sion  shall  tread  on  heavenly  ground.  There  they  will 
doubtless  find  that  they  have  been  working  each  for 
the  other's  cause,  and  that  every  well-delivered  stroke, 
which,  with  an  honest  purpose  any  mortal  struck,  even 
for  a  narrow  object,  was  indeed  stricken  for  the  univer 
sal  cause  of  good.  Their  own  view  may  be  bounded 
by  country,  creed,  profession,  the  diversities  of  indi 
vidual  character  —  but  above  them  all  is  the  breadth 
of  Providence.  How  many  who  have  deemed  them 
selves  antagonists  will  smile  hereafter,  when  they  look 
back  upon  the  world's  wide  harvest  field,  and  perceive 
that,  in  unconscious  brotherhood,  they  were  helping  to 
bind  the  selfsame  sheaf  ! 

But,  come !     The  sun  is  hastening  westward,  while 


248  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

the  march  of  human  life,  that  never  paused  before,  is 
delayed  by  our  attempt  to  rearrange  its  order.  It  is 
desirable  to  find  some  comprehensive  principle,  that 
shall  render  our  task  easier  by  bringing  thousands  into 
the  ranks  where  hitherto  we  have  brought  one.  There 
fore  let  the  trumpet,  if  possible,  split  its  brazen  throat 
with  a  louder  note  than  ever,  and  the  herald  summon 
all  mortals,  who,  from  whatever  cause,  have  lost,  or 
never  found,  their  proper  places  in  the  world. 

Obedient  to  this  call,  a  great  multitude  come  to 
gether,  most  of  them  with  a  listless  gait,  betokening 
weariness  of  soul,  yet  with  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in 
their  faces,  at  a  prospect  of  at  length  reaching  those 
positions  which,  hitherto,  they  have  vainly  sought. 
But  here  will  be  another  disappointment ;  for  we  can 
attempt  no  more  than  merely  to  associate  in  one  frater 
nity  all  who  are  afflicted  with  the  same  vague  trouble. 
Some  great  mistake  in  life  is  the  chief  condition  of  ad 
mittance  into  this  class.  Here  are  members  of  the 
learned  professions,  whom  Providence  endowed  with 
special  gifts  for  the  plough,  the  forge,  and  the  wheel 
barrow,  or  for  the  routine  of  unintellectual  business. 
We  will  assign  to  them,  as  partners  in  the  march, 
those  lowly  laborers  and  handicraftsmen,  who  have 
pined,  as  with  a  dying  thirst,  after  the  unattainable 
fountains  of  knowledge.  The  latter  have  lost  less 
than  their  companions  ;  yet  more,  because  they  deem 
it  infinite.  Perchance  the  two  species  of  unfortunates 
may  comfort  one  another.  Here  are  Quakers  with 
the  instinct  of  battle  in  them  ;  and  men  of  war  who 
should  have  worn  the  broad  brim.  Authors  shall  be 
ranked  here  whom  some  freak  of  Nature,  making 
game  of  her  poor  children,  had  imbued  with  the  con« 
fidence  of  genius  and  strong  desire  of  fame,  but  has 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE.  249 

favored  with  no  corresponding  power ;  and  others, 
whose  lofty  gifts  were  unaccompanied  with  the  faculty 
of  expression,  or  any  of  that  earthly  machinery  by 
which  ethereal  endowments  must  be  manifested  to 
mankind.  All  these,  therefore,  are  melancholy  laugh 
ing-stocks.  Next,  here  are  honest  and  well  intentioned 
persons,  who  by  a  want  of  tact  —  by  inaccurate  per 
ceptions  —  by  a  distorting  imagination  —  have  been 
kept  continually  at  cross  purposes  with  the  world  and 
bewildered  upon  the  path  of  life.  Let  us  see  if  they 
can  confine  themselves  within  the  line  of  our  proces 
sion.  In  this  class,  likewise,  we  must  assign  places 
to  those  who  have  encountered  that  worst  of  ill  success, 
a  higher  fortune  than  their  abilities  could  vindicate ; 
writers,  actors,  painters,  the  pets  of  a  day,  but  whose 
laurels  wither  unrenewed  amid  their  hoary  hair  ; 
politicians,  whom  some  malicious  contingency  of  affairs 
has  thrust  into  conspicuous  station,  where,  while  the 
world  stands  gazing  at  them,  the  dreary  consciousness 
of  imbecility  makes  them  curse  their  birth  hour.  To 
such  men,  we  give  for  a  companion  him  whose  rare 
talents,  which  perhaps  require  a  Revolution  for  their 
exercise,  are  buried  in  the  tomb  of  sluggish  circum 
stances. 

Not  far  from  these,  we  must  find  room  for  one  whose 
success  has  been  of  the  wrong  kind ;  the  man  who 
should  have  lingered  in  the  cloisters  of  a  university, 
digging  new  treasures  out  of  the  Herculaneum  of  an 
tique  lore,  diffusing  depth  and  accuracy  of  literature 
throughout  his  country,  and  thus  making  for  himself 
a  great  and  quiet  fame.  But  the  outward  tendencies 
around  him  have  proved  too  powerful  for  his  inward 
nature,  and  have  drawn  him  into  the  arena  of  political 
tumult,  there  to  contend  at  disadvantage,  whether  front 


250  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

to  front,  or  side  by  side,  with  the  brawny  giants  of  act 
ual  life.  He  becomes,  it  may  be,  a  name  for  brawling 
parties  to  bandy  to  and  fro,  a  legislator  of  the  Union  ; 
a  governor  of  his  native  state  ;  an  ambassador  to  the 
courts  of  kings  or  queens ;  and  the  world  may  deem 
him  a  man  of  happy  stars.  But  not  so  the  wise  ;  and 
not  so  himself,  when  he  looks  through  his  experience, 
and  sighs  to  miss  that  fitness,  the  one  invaluable  touch 
which  makes  all  things  true  and  real.  So  much 
achieved,  yet  how  abortive  is  his  life !  Whom  shall 
we  choose  for  his  companion?  Some  weak  framed 
blacksmith,  perhaps,  whose  delicacy  of  muscle  might 
have  suited  a  tailor's  shopboard  better  than  the  anvil. 

Shall  we  bid  the  trumpet  sound  again  ?  It  is  hardly 
worth  the  while.  There  remain  a  few  idle  men  of 
fortune,  tavern  and  grog-shop  loungers,  lazzaroni,  old 
bachelors,  decaying  maidens,  and  people  of  crooked 
intellect  or  temper,  all  of  whom  may  find  their  like, 
or  some  tolerable  approach  to  it,  in  the  plentiful  diver 
sity  of  our  latter  class.  There  too,  as  his  ultimate  des 
tiny,  must  we  rank  the  dreamer,  who,  all  his  life  long, 
has  cherished  the  idea  that  he  was  peculiarly  apt  for 
something,  but  never  could  determine  what  it  was  ; 
and  there  the  most  unfortunate  of  men,  whose  purpose 
it  has  been  to  enjoy  life's  pleasures,  but  to  avoid  a 
manful  struggle  with  its  toil  and  sorrow.  The  re 
mainder,  if  any,  may  connect  themselves  with  whatever 
ra,nk  of  the  procession  they  shall  find  best  adapted  to 
their  tastes  and  consciences.  The  worst  possible  fate 
would  be  to  remain  behind,  shivering  in  the  solitude  of 
time,  while  all  the  world  is  on  the  move  towards  eter 
nity.  Our  attempt  to  classify  society  is  now  complete. 
The  result  may  be  anything  but  perfect ;  yet  better  — 
to  give  it  the  very  lowest  praise  —  than  the  antique 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE.  251 

rule  of  the  herald's  office,  or  the  modern  one  of  the 
tax-gatherer,  whereby  the  accidents  and  superficial  at 
tributes,  with  which  the  real  nature  of  individuals  has 
least  to  do,  are  acted  upon  as  the  deepest  character 
istics  of  mankind.  Our  task  is  done  !  Now  let  the 
grand  procession  move ! 

Yet  pause  a  while!  We  had  forgotten  the  Chief 
Marshal. 

Hark !  That  world-wide  swell  of  solemn  music,  with 
the  clang  of  a  mighty  bell  breaking  forth  through  its 
regulated  uproar,  announces  his  approach.  He  comes ; 
a  severe,  sedate,  immovable,  dark  rider,  waving  his 
truncheon  of  universal  sway,  as  he  passes  along  the 
lengthened  line,  on  the  pale  horse  of  the  Revelation. 
It  is  Death  !  Who  else  could  assume  the  guidance  of 
a  procession  that  comprehends  all  humanity  ?  And  if 
some,  among  these  many  millions,  should  deem  them 
selves  classed  amiss,  yet  let  them  take  to  their  hearts 
the  comfortable  truth,  that  Death  levels  us  all  into  one 
great  brotherhood,  and  that  another  state  of  being  will 
surely  rectify  the  wrong  of  this.  Then  breathe  thy 
wail  upon  the  earth's  wailing  wind,  thou  band  of  mel 
ancholy  music,  made  up  of  every  sigh  that  the  human 
heart,  unsatisfied,  has  uttered !  There  is  yet  triumph 
in  thy  tones.  And  now  we  move  !  Beggars  in  their 
rags,  and  Kings  trailing  the  regal  purple  in  the  dust ; 
the  Warrior's  gleaming  helmet ;  the  Priest  in  his  sable 
robe  ;  the  hoary  Grandsire,  who  has  run  life's  circle 
and  come  back  to  childhood;  the  ruddy  School-boy 
with  his  golden  curls,  frisking  along  the  march  ;  the 
Artisan's  stuff  jacket ;  the  Noble's  star-decorated  coat ; 
—  the  whole  presenting  a  motley  spectacle,  yet  with  a 
dusky  grandeur  brooding  over  it.  Onward,  onward, 
into  that  dimness  where  the  lights  of  Time,  which  have 


252          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

blazed  along  the  procession,  are  flickering  in  theii 
sockets  !  And  whither  !  We  know  not ;  and  Death, 
hitherto  our  leader,  deserts  us  by  the  wayside,  as  the 
tramp  of  our  innumerable  footsteps  echoes  beyond  his 
sphere.  He  knows  not,  more  than  we,  our  destined 
goal.  But  God,  who  made  us,  knows,  and  will  not 
leave  us  on  our  toilsome  and  doubtful  march,  either  to 
waader  in  infinite  uncertainty,  or  perish  by  the  way ! 


FEATHERTOP  :   A  MORALIZED  LEGEND. 

"  DICKON,"  cried  Mother  Rigby,  "a  coal  for  my 
pipe!" 

The  pipe  was  in  the  old  dame's  mouth  when  she  said 
these  words.  She  had  thrust  it  there  after  filling  it 
with  tobacco,  but  without  stooping  to  light  it  at  the 
hearth,  where  indeed  there  was  no  appearance  of  a 
fire  having  been  kindled  that  morning.  Forthwith, 
however,  as  soon  as  the  order  was  given,  there  was  an 
intense  red  glow  out  of  the  bowl  of  the  pipe,  and  a 
whiff  of  smoke  from  Mother  Rigby's  lips.  Whence 
the  coal  came,  and  how  brought  thither  by  an  invisible 
hand,  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover. 

"  Good !  "  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  with  a  nod  of  her 
head.  "Thank  ye,  Dickon!  And  now  for  making 
this  scarecrow.  Be  within  call,  Dickon,  in  case  I  need 
you  again."  < 

The  good  woman  had  risen  thus  early  (for  as  yet  it 
was  scarcely  sunrise)  in  order  to  set  about  making  a 
scarecrow,  which  she  intended  to  put  in  the  middle  of 
her  corn-patch.  It  was  now  the  latter  week  of  May, 
and  the  crows  and  blackbirds  had  already  discovered 
the  little,  green,  rolled-up  leaf  of  the  Indian  corn  just 
peeping  out  of  the  soil.  She  was  determined,  therefore, 
to  contrive  as  lifelike  a  scarecrow  as  ever  was  seen, 
and  to  finish  it  immediately,  from  top  to  toe,  so  that 
it  should  begin  its  sentinel's  duty  that  very  morning. 
Now  Mother  Rigby  (as  everybody  must  have  heard) 
was  one  of  the  most  cunning  and  potent  witches  in  New 


254          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

England,  and  might,  with  very  little  trouble,  have  made 
a  scarecrow  ugly  enough  to  frighten  the  minister  him 
self.  But  on  this  occasion,  as  she  had  awakened  in  an 
uncommonly  pleasant  humor,  and  was  further  dulcified 
by  her  pipe  of  tobacco,  she  resolved  to  produce  some 
thing  fine,  beautiful,  and  splendid,  rather  than  hideous 
and  horrible. 

"  I  don't  want  to  set  up  a  hobgoblin  in  my  own  corn- 
patch,  and  almost  at  my  own  doorstep,"  said  Mother 
Bigby  to  herself,  puffing  out  a  whiff  of  smoke;  "I 
could  do  it  if  I  pleased,  but  I  'in  tired  of  doing  mar 
vellous  things,  and  so  I  '11  keep  within  the  bounds  of 
every-day  business  just  for  variety's  sake.  Besides, 
there  is  no  use  in  scaring  the  little  children  for  a  mile 
roundabout,  though  't  is  true  I  'm  a  witch." 

It  was  settled,  therefore,  in  her  own  mind,  that  the 
scarecrow  should  represent  a  fine  gentleman  of  the  pe-' 
riod,  so  far  as  the  materials  at  hand  would  allow.  Per 
haps  it  may  be  as  well  to  enumerate  the  chief  of  the 
articles  that  went  to  the  composition  of  this  figure. 

The  most  important  item  of  all,  probably,  although  it 
made  so  little  show,  was  a  certain  broomstick,  on  which 
Mother  Bigby  had  taken  many  an  airy  gallop  at  mid 
night,  and  which  now  served  the  scarecrow  by  way  of 
a  spinal  column,  or,  as  the  unlearned  phrase  it,  a  back 
bone.  One  of  its  arms  was  a  disabled  flail  which  used 
to  be  wielded  by  Goodman  Rigby,  before  his  spouse 
worried  him  out  of  this  troublesome  world ;  the  other, 
if  I  mistake  not,  was  composed  of  the  pudding  stick 
and  a  broken  rung  of  a  chair,  tied  loosely  together  at 
the  elbow.  As  for  its  legs,  the  right  was  a  hoe  han 
dle,  and  the  left  an  undistinguished  and  miscellane 
ous  stick  from  the  woodpile.  Its  lungs,  stomach,  and 
Dther  affairs  of  that  kind  were  nothing  better  than  a 


FEATHERTOP;  A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.    255 

meal  bag  stuffed  with  straw.  Thus  we  have  made  out 
the  skeleton  and  entire  corporosity  of  the  scarecrow, 
with  the  exception  of  its  head ;  and  this  was  admir 
ably  supplied  by  a  somewhat  withered  and  shrivelled 
pumpkin,  in  which  Mother  Rigby  cut  two  holes  for 
the  eyes,  and  a  slit  for  the  mouth,  leaving  a  bluish- 
colored  knob  in  the  middle  to  pass  for  a  nose.  It 
was  really  quite  a  respectable  face. 

"  I  've  seen  worse  ones  on  human  shoulders,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Mother  Rigby.  "  And  many  a  fine  gentle 
man  has  a  pumpkin  head,  as  well  as  my  scarecrow." 

But  the  clothes,  in  this  case,  were  to  be  the  making 
of  the  man.  So  the  good  old  woman  took  down  from 
a  peg  an  ancient  plum-colored  coat  of  London  make, 
and  with  relics  of  embroidery  on  its  seams,  cuffs,  pock 
et-flaps,  and  button-holes,  but  lamentably  worn  and 
faded,  patched  at  the  elbows,  tattered  at  the  skirts,  and 
threadbare  all  over.  On  the  left  breast  was  a  round 
hole,  whence  either  a  star  of  nobility  had  been  rent 
away,  or  else  the  hot  heart  of  some  former  wearer  had 
scorched  it  through  and  through.  The  neighbors  said 
that  this  rich  garment  belonged  to  the  Black  Man's 
wardrobe,  and  that  he  kept  it  at  Mother  Rigby's  cot 
tage  for  the  convenience  of  slipping  it  on  whenever  he 
wished  to  make  a  grand  appearance  at  the  governor's 
table.  To  match  the  coat  there  was  a  velvet  waistcoat 
of  very  ample  size,  and  formerly  embroidered  with 
foliage  that  had  been  as  brightly  golden  as  the  maple 
leaves  in  October,  but  which  had  now  quite  vanished 
out  of  the  substance  of  the  velvet  Next  came  a  pair 
of  scarlet  breeches,  once  worn  by  the  French  governor 
of  Louisbourg,  and  the  knees  of  which  had  touched 
the  lower  step  of  the  throne  of  Louis  le  Grrand.  The 
Frenchman  had  given  these  smallclothes  to  an  Indian 


256  MOSSES  PROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

powwow,  who  parted  with  them  to  the  old  witch  for  a 
gill  of  strong  waters,  at  one  of  their  dances  in  the  for 
est.  Furthermore,  Mother  Rigby  produced  a  pair  of 
silk  stockings  and  put  them  on  the  figure's  legs,  where 
they  showed  as  unsubstantial  as  a  dream,  with  the 
wooden  reality  of  the  two  sticks  making  itself  miser 
ably  apparent  through  the  holes.  Lastly,  she  put  her 
dead  husband's  wig  on  the  bare  scalp  of  the  pumpkin, 
and  surmounted  the  whole  with  a  dusty  three-cornered 
hat,  in  which  was  stuck  the  longest  tail  feather  of  & 
rooster. 

Then  the  old  dame  stood  the  figure  up  in  a  corner 
of  her  cottage  and  chuckled  to  behold  its  yellow  sem 
blance  of  a  visage,  with  its  nobby  little  nose  thrust 
into  the  air.  It  had  a  strangely  self-satisfied  aspect, 
and  seemed  to  say,  "  Come  look  at  me  !  " 

"  And  you  are  well  worth  looking  at,  that 's  a  fact !  " 
quoth  Mother  Rigby,  in  admiration  at  her  own  handi 
work.  "  I  Ve  made  many  a  puppet  since  I  've  been  a 
witch,  but  methinks  this  is  the  finest  of  them  all.  'T  is 
almost  too  good  for  a  scarecrow.  And,  by  the  by,  I  '11 
just  fill  a  fresh  pipe  of  tobacco  and  then  take  him  out 
to  the  corn-patch." 

While  filling  her  pipe  the  old  woman  continued  to 
gaze  with  almost  motherly  affection  at  the  figure  in  the 
corner.  To  say  the  truth,  whether  it  were  chance,  or 
skill,  or  downright  witchcraft,  there  was  something 
wonderfully  human  in  this  ridiculous  shape,  bedizened 
with  its  tattered  finery ;  and  as  for  the  countenance,  it 
appeared  to  shrivel  its  yellow  surface  into  a  grin  —  a 
funny  kind  of  expression  betwixt  scorn  and  merriment, 
as  if  it  understood  itself  to  be  a  jest  at  mankind.  The 
more  Mother  Rigby  looked  the  better  she  was  pleased, 

"  Dickon,"  cried  she  sharply,  "  another  coal  for  my 
pipe!" 


FEATHERTOP:   A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.    257 

Hardly  had  she  spoken,  than,  just  as  before,  there 
was  a  red-glowing  coal  on  the  top  of  the  tobacco.  She 
drew  in  a  long  whiff  and  puffed  it  forth  again  into  the 
bar  of  morning  sunshine  which  struggled  through  the 
one  dusty  pane  of  her  cottage  window.  Mother  Rigby 
always  liked  to  flavor  her  pipe  with  a  coal  of  fire  from 
the  particular  chimney  corner  whence  this  had  been 
brought.  But  where  that  chimney  corner  might  be,  or 
who  brought  the  coal  from  it,  —  further  than  that  the 
invisible  messenger  seemed  to  respond  to  the  name  of 
Dickon,  —  I  cannot  tell. 

"  That  puppet  yonder,"  thought  Mother  Rigby,  still 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  scarecrow,  "  is  too  good  a 
piece  of  work  to  stand  all  summer  in  a  corn -patch, 
frightening  away  the  crows  and  blackbirds.  He 's  ca 
pable  of  better  things.  Why,  I  've  danced  with  a  worse 
one,  when  partners  happened  to  be  scarce,  at  our  witch 
meetings  in  the  forest !  What  if  I  should  let  him  take 
his  chance  among  the  other  men  of  straw  and  empty 
fellows  who  go  bustling  about  the  world  ?  " 

The  old  witch  took  three  or  four  more  whiffs  of  her 
pipe  and  smiled. 

"  He  '11  meet  plenty  of  his  brethren  at  every  street 
corner  !  "  continued  she.  "  Well ;  I  did  n't  mean  to 
dabble  in  witchcraft  to-day,  further  than  the  lighting  of 
my  pipe  ,  but  a  witch  I  am,  and  a  witch  I  "m  likely  to 
be,  and  there 's  no  use  trying  to  shirk  it.  I  '11  make 
a  man  of  my  scarecrow,  were  it  only  for  the  joke's 
sake ! " 

While  muttering  these  words,  Mother  Rigby  took 
the  pipe  from  her  own  mouth  and  thrust  it  into  the  cre 
vice  which  represented  the  same  feature  in  the  pump 
kin  visage  of  the  scarecrow. 

VOL.  II.  17 


258          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

"  Puff,  darling,  puff !  "  said  she.  "  Puff  away,  my 
fine  fellow  !  your  life  depends  on  it ! " 

This  was  a  strange  exhortation,  undoubtedly,  to  be 
addressed  to  a  mere  thing  of  sticks,  straw,  and  old 
clothes,  with  nothing  better  than  a  shrivelled  pumpkin 
for  a  head,  —  as  we  know  to  have  been  the  scarecrow's 
case.  Nevertheless,  as.  we  must  carefully  hold  in  re 
membrance,  Mother  Rigby  was  a  witch  of  singular 
power  and  dexterity ;  and,  keeping  this  fact  duly  be 
fore  our  minds,  we  shall  see  nothing  beyond  credibility 
in  the  remarkable  incidents  of  our  story.  Indeed,  the 
great  difficulty  will  be  at  once  got  over,  if  we  can  only 
bring  ourselves  to  believe  that,  as  soon  as  the  old  dame 
bade  him  puff,  there  came  a  whiff  of  smoke  from  the 
scarecrow's  mouth.  It  was  the  very  feeblest  of  whiffs, 
to  be  sure  ;  but  it  was  followed  by  another  and  another, 
each  more  decided  than  the  preceding  one. 

"  Puff  away,  my  pet !  puff  away,  my  pretty  one  !  " 
Mother  Rigby  kept  repeating,  with  her  pleasantest 
smile.  "  It  is  the  breath  of  life  to  ye ;  and  that  you 
may  take  my  word  for." 

Beyond  all  question  the  pipe  was  bewitched.  There 
must  have  been  a  spell  either  in  the  tobacco  or  in  the 
fiercely-glowing  coal  that  so  mysteriously  burned  on 
top  of  it,  or  in  the  pungently-aromatic  smoke  which 
exhaled  from  the  kindled  weed.  The  figure,  after  a 
few  doubtful  attempts,  at  length  blew  forth  a  volley  of 
smoke  extending  all  the  way  from  the  obscure  corner 
into  the  bar  of  sunshine.  There  it  eddied  and  melted 
away  among  the  motes  of  dust.  It  seemed  a  convul 
sive  effort ;  for  the  two  or  three  next  whiffs  were 
fainter,  although  the  coal  still  glowed  and  threw  a 
gleam  over  the  scarecrow's  visage.  The  old  witch 
clapped  her  skinny  hands  together,  and  smiled  en- 


FEATHERTOP:  A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.    259 

couragingly  upon  her  handiwork.  She  saw  that  the 
charm  worked  well.  The  shrivelled,  yellow  face,  which 
heretofore  had  been  no  face  at  all,  had  already  a  thin, 
fantastic  haze,  as  it  were  of  human  likeness,  shifting 
to  and  fro  across  it ;  sometimes  vanishing  entirely,  bir 
growing  more  perceptible  than  ever  with  the  next  whil 
from  the  pipe.  The  whole  figure,  in  like  manner,  as 
sumed  a  show  of  life,  such  as  we  impart  to  ill-defined 
shapes  among  the  clouds,  and  half  deceive  ourselves 
with  the  pastime  of  our  own  fancy. 

If  we  must  needs  pry  closely  into  the  matter,  it  may 
be  doubted  whether  there  was  any  real  change,  aftei 
all,  in  the  sordid,  wornout,  worthless,  and  ill-jointed 
substance  of  the  scarecrow  ;  but  merely  a  spectral  illu 
sion,  and  a  cunning  effect  of  light  and  shade  so  colored 
and  contrived  as  to  delude  the  eyes  of  most  men.  The 
miracles  of  witchcraft  seem  always  to  have  had  a  very 
shallow  subtlety ;  and,  at  least,  if  the  above  explana 
tion  do  not  hit  the  truth  of  the  process,  I  can  suggest 
no  better. 

"  Well  puffed,  my  pretty  lad  !  "  still  cried  old 
Mother  Rigby.  "Come,  another  good  stout  whiff, 
and  let  it  be  with  might  and  main.  Puff  for  thy  life, 
I  tell  thee !  Puff  out  of  the  very  bottom  of  thy  heart, 
if  any  heart  thou  hast,  or  any  bottom  to  it !  Well 
done,  again !  Thou  didst  suck  in  that  mouthful  as  if 
for  the  pure  love  of  it." 

And  then  the  witch  beckoned  to  the  scarecrow, 
throwing  so  much  magnetic  potency  into  her  gesture 
that  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  inevitably  be  obeyed,  like 
the  mystic  call  of  the  loadstone  when  it  summons  the 
iron. 

"  Why  lurkest  thou  in  the  corner,  lazy  one?"  said 
Bhe.  "  Step  forth !  Thou  hast  the  world  before  thee ! " 


260          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Upon  my  word,  if  the  legend  were  not  one  which  I 
heard  on  my  grandmother's  knee,  and  which  had  estab< 
lished  its  place  among  things  credible  before  my  child 
ish  judgment  could  analyze  its  probability,  I  question 
whether  I  should  have  the  face  to  tell  it  now. 

In  obedience  to  Mother  Rigby's  word,  and  extend 
ing  its  arm  as  if  to  reach  her  outstretched  hand,  the 
figure  made  a  step  forward  —  a  kind  of  hitch  and  jerk, 
however,  rather  than  a  step  —  then  tottered  and  almost 
lost  its  balance.  What  could  the  witch  expect  ?  It 
was  nothing,  after  all,  but  a  scarecrow  stuck  upon  two 
sticks.  But  the  strong-willed  old  beldam  scowled,  and 
beckoned,  and  flung  the  energy  of  her  purpose  so  for 
cibly  at  this  poor  combination  of  rotten  wood,  and 
musty  straw,  and  ragged  garments,  that  it  was  com 
pelled  to  show  itself  a  man,  in  spite  of  the  reality  of 
things.  So  it  stepped  into  the  bar  of  sunshine.  There 
it  stood  —  poor  devil  of  a  contrivance  that  it  was  !  — 
with  only  the  thinnest  vesture  of  human  similitude 
about  it,  through  which  was  evident1  the  stiff,  rickety, 
incongruous,  faded,  tattered,  good-for-nothing  patch 
work  of  its  substance,  ready  to  sink  in  a  heap  upon 
the  floor,  as  conscious  of  its  own  unworthiness  to  be 
erect  Shall  I  confess  the  truth  ?  At  its  present  point 
of  vivification,  the  scarecrow  reminds  me  of  some  of 
the  lukewarm  and  abortive  characters,  composed  of 
heterogeneous  materials,  used  for  the  thousandth  time, 
and  never  worth  using,  with  which  romance  writers 
(and  myself,  no  doubt,  among  the  rest)  have  so  over 
peopled  the  world  of  fiction. 

But  the  fierce  old  hag  began  to  get  angry  and  show 
a  glimpse  of  her  diabolic  nature  (like  a  snake's  head, 
peeping  with  a  hiss  out  of  her  bosom),  at  this  pusil 
lanimous  behavior  of  the  tiling  which  she  had  taken 
the  trouble  to  put  together. 


FEATHERTOP:  A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.    261 

"  Puff  away,  wretch ! "  cried  she,  wrathfully.  "  Puff, 
puff,  puff,  thou  thing  of  straw  and  emptiness  !  them 
rag  or  two !  thou  meal  bag !  thou  pumpkin  head !  thou 
nothing !  Where  shall  I  find  a  name  vile  enough  to 
call  thee  by  ?  Puff,  I  say,  and  suck  in  thy  fantastic 
life  along  with  the  smoke !  else  I  snatch  the  pipe  from 
thy  mouth  and  hurl  thee  where  that  red  coal  came 
from." 

Thus  threatened,  the  unhappy  scarecrow  had  nothing 
for  it  but  to  puff  away  for  dear  life.  As  need  was, 
therefore,  it  applied  itself  lustily  to  the  pipe,  and  sent 
forth  such  abundant  volleys  of  tobacco  smoke  that  the 
small  cottage  kitchen  became  all  vaporous.  The  one 
sunbeam  struggled  mistily  through,  and  could  but  im 
perfectly  define  the  image  of  the  cracked  and  dusty 
window  pane  on  the  opposite  wall.  Mother  Rigby, 
meanwhile,  with  one  brown  arm  akimbo  and  the  other 
stretched  towards  the  figure,  loomed  grimly  amid  the 
obscurity  with  such  port  and  expression  as  when  she 
was  wont  to  heave  a  ponderous  nightmare  on  her  vic 
tims  and  stand  at  the  bedside  to  enjoy  their  agony.  In 
fear  and  trembling  did  this  poor  scarecrow  puff.  But 
its  efforts,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  served  an  excellent 
purpose ;  for,  with  each  successive  whiff,  the  figure  lost 
more  and  more  of  its  dizzy  and  perplexing  tenuity  and 
seemed  to  take  denser  substance.  Its  very  garments, 
moreover,  partook  of  the  magical  change,  and  shone 
with  the  gloss  of  novelty  and  glistened  with  the  skil 
fully  embroidered  gold  that  had  long  ago  been  rent 
away.  And,  half  revealed  among  the  smoke,  a  yellow 
visage  bent  its  lustreless  eyes  on  Mother  Rigby. 

At  last  the  old  witch  clinched  her  fist  and  shook  it 
at  the  figure.  Not  that  she  was  positively  angry,  but 
merely  acting  on  the  principle  —  perhaps  untrue,  or 


262  MOSSES  FROM  AN    OLD  MANSE. 

not  the  only  truth,  though  as  high  a  one  as  Mother 
Rigby  could  be  expected  to  attain  —  that  feeble  and 
torpid  natures,  being  incapable  of  better  inspiration, 
must  be  stirred  up  by  fear.  But  here  was  the  crisis. 
Should  she  fail  in  what  she  now  sought  to  effect,  it 
was  her  ruthless  purpose  to  scatter  the  miserable  sim- 
ulacre  into  its  original  elements. 

"  Thou  hast  a  man's  aspect,"  said  she,  sternly,, 
"  Have  also  the  echo  and  mockery  of  a  voice  !  I  bid 
thee  speak ! " 

The  scarecrow  gasped,  struggled,  and  at  length 
emitted  a  murmur,  which  was  so  incorporated  with 
its  smoky  breath  that  you  could  scarcely  tell  whether 
it  were  indeed  a  voice  or  only  a  whiff  of  tobacco. 
Some  narrators  of  this  legend  hold  the  opinion  that 
Mother  Rigby's  conjurations  and  the  fierceness  of  her 
will  had  compelled  a  familiar  spirit  into  the  figure, 
and  that  the  voice  was  his. 

"  Mother,"  mumbled  the  poor  stifled  voice,  "  be  not 
so  awful  with  me!  I  would  fain  speak;  but  being 
without  wits,  what  can  I  say  ?  " 

"  Thou  canst  speak,  darling,  canst  thou  ? "  cried 
Mother  Rigby,  relaxing  her  grim  countenance  into  a 
smile.  "  And  what  shalt  thou  say,  quotha  !  Say,  in 
deed  !  Art  thou  of  the  brotherhood  of  the  empty  skull, 
and  demandest  of  me  what  thou  shalt  say  ?  Thou 
shalt  say  a  thousand  things,  and  saying  them  a  thou 
sand  times  over,  thou  shalt  still  have  said  nothing ! 
3e  not  afraid,  I  tell  thee  !  When  thou  comest  into  the 
".irorld  (whither  I  purpose  sending  thee  forthwith)  thou 
shalt  not  lack  the  wherewithal  to  talk.  Talk !  Why, 
thou  shall  babble  like  a  mill-stream,  if  thou  wilt.  Thou 
iast  brains  enough  for  that,  I  trow !  " 

"  At  your  service,  mother,"  responded  the  figure. 


FEATHERTOP:   A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.    263 

"  And  that  was  well  said,  my  pretty  one,"  answered 
Mother  Rigby.  "  Then  thou  speakest  like  thyself,  and 
meant  nothing.  Thou  shalt  have  a  hundred  such  set 
phrases,  and  five  hundred  to  the  boot  of  them.  And 
now,  darling,  I  have  taken  so  much  pains  with  thee 
and  thou  art  so  beautiful,  that,  by  my  troth,  I  love  thee 
better  than  any  witch's  puppet  in  the  world ;  and  I  've 
made  them  of  all  sorts  —  clay,  wax,  straw,  sticks,  night 
fog,  morning  mist,  sea  foam,  and  chimney  smoke.  But 
thou  art  the  very  best.  So  give  heed  to  what  I  say." 

"Yes,  kind  mother,"  said  the  figure,  "  with  all  my 
heart !  " 

"  With  all  thy  heart !  "  cried  the  old  witch,  setting 
her  hands  to  her  sides  and  laughing  loudly.  "  Thou 
hast  such  a  pretty  way  of  speaking.  With  all  thy 
heart !  And  thou  didst  put  thy  hand  to  the  left  side 
of  thy  waistcoat  as  if  thou  really  hadst  one !  " 

So  now,  in  high  good  humor  with  this  fantastic  con 
trivance  of  hers,  Mother  Rigby  told  the  scarecrow  that 
it  must  go  and  play  its  part  in  the  great  world,  where 
not  one  man  in  a  hundred,  she  affirmed,  was  gifted 
with  more  real  substance  than  itself.  And,  that  he 
might  hold  up  his  head  with  the  best  of  them,  she  en 
dowed  him,  on  the  spot,  with  an  unreckonable  amount 
of  wealth.  It  consisted  partly  of  a  gold  mine  in  Eldo 
rado,  and  of  ten  thousand  shares  in  a  broken  bubble^ 
and  of  half  a  million  acres  of  vineyard  at  the  North 
Pole,  and  of  a  castle  in  the  air,  and  a  chateau  in  Spain, 
together  with  all  the  rents  and  income  therefrom  accru 
ing.  She  further  made  over  to  him  the  cargo  of  a  cer 
tain  ship,  laden  with  salt  of  Cadiz,  which  she  herself, 
by  her  necromantic  arts,  had  caused  to  founder,  ten 
years  before,  in  the  deepest  part  of  mid-ocean.  If  the 
Bait  were  not  dissolved,  and  could  be  brought  to  mar- 


264          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ket,  it  would  fetch  a  pretty  penny  among  the  fisher* 
men.  That  he  might  not  lack  ready  money,  she  gave 
him  a  copper  farthing  of  Birmingham  manufacture,  be 
ing  all  the  coin  she  had  about  her,  and  likewise  a  great 
deal  of  brass,  which  she  applied  to  his  forehead,  thusr 
making  it  yellower  than  ever. 

"  With  that  brass  alone,"  quoth  Mother  Rigby? 
"thou  canst  pay  thy  way  all  over  the  earth.  Kiss 
me,  pretty  darling !  I  have  done  my  best  for  thee." 

Furthermore,  that  the  adventurer  might  lack  no  pos 
sible  advantage  towards  a  fair  start  in  life,  this  excel 
lent  old  dame  gave  him  a  token  by  which  he  was  to  in 
troduce  himself  to  a  certain  magistrate,  member  of  the 
council,  merchant,  and  elder  of  the  church  (the  four 
capacities  constituting  but  one  man),  who  stood  at  the 
head  of  society  in  the  neighboring  metropolis.  The 
token  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  single  word, 
which  Mother  Rigby  whispered  to  the  scarecrow,  and 
which  the  scarecrow  was  to  whisper  to  the  merchant. 

"  Gouty  as  the  old  fellow  is,  he  '11  run  thy  errands 
for  thee,  when  once  thou  hast  given  him  that  word  in 
his  ear,"  said  the  old  witch.  "  Mother  Rigby  knows 
the  worshipful  Justice  Gookin,  and  the  worshipful 
Justice  knows  Mother  Rigby  !  " 

Here  the  witch  thrust  her  wrinkled  face  close  to  the 
puppet's,  chuckling  irrepressibly,  and  fidgeting  all 
through  her  system,  with  delight  at  the  idea  which  she 
meant  to  communicate. 

"The  worshipful  Master  Gookin,"  whispered  she, 
"  hath  a  comely  maiden  to  his  daughter.  And  hark 
ye,  my  pet !  Thou  hast  a  fair  outside,  and  a  pretty 
wit  enough  of  thine  own.  Yea,  a  pretty  wit  enough  ! 
Thou  wilt  think  better  of  it  when  thou  hast  seen  more 
of  other  people's  wits.  Now,  with  thy  outside  and  thy 


FEATHERTOP:   A   MORALIZED   LEGEND.     265 

inside,  thou  art  the  very  man  to  win  a  young  girl's 
heart.  Never  doubt  it !  I  tell  thee  it  shall  be  so.  Put 
but  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  sigh,  smile,  flourish  thy 
hat,  thrust  forth  thy  leg  like  a  dancing-master,  put  thy 
right  hand  to  the  left  side  of  thy  waistcoat,  and  pretty 
Polly  Gookin  is  thine  own !  " 

All  this  while  the  new  creature  had  been  sucking 
in  and  exhaling  the  vapory  fragrance  of  his  pipe,  and 
seemed  now  to  continue  this  occupation  as  much  for 
the  enjoyment  it  afforded  as  because  it  was  an  essen 
tial  condition  of  his  existence.  It  was  wonderful  to 
see  how  exceedingly  like  a  human  being1  it  behaved. 
Its  eyes  (for  it  appeared  to  possess  a  pair)  were  bent 
on  Mother  Rigby,  and  at  suitable  junctures  it  nodded 
or  shook  its  head.  Neither  did  it  lack  words  proper 
for  the  occasion :  "  Really  !  Indeed  !  Pray  tell  me  ! 
Is  it  possible  !  Upon  my  word  !  By  no  means !  Oh  ! 
Ah !  Hem !  "  and  other  such  weighty  utterances  aa» 
imply  attention,  inquiry,  acquiescence,  or  dissent  on  the 
part  of  the  auditor.  Even  had  you  stood  by  and  seen 
the  scarecrow  made,  you  could  scarcely  have  resisted 
the  conviction  that  it  perfectly  understood  the  cunning 
counsels  which  the  old  witch  poured  into  its  counter 
feit  of  an  ear.  The  more  earnestly  it  applied  its  lips 
to  the  pipe,  the  more  distinctly  was  its  human  likeness 
stamped  among  visible  realities,  the  more  sagacious 
grew  its  expression,  the  more  lifelike  its  gestures  and 
movements,  and  the  more  intelligibly  audible  its  voice. 
Its  garments,  too,  glistened  so  much  the  brighter  with 
an  illusory  magnificence.  The  very  pipe,  in  which 
burned  the  spell  of  all  this  wonderwork,  ceased  to  ap 
pear  as  a  smoke-blackened-  earthen  stump,  and  became 
a  meerschaum,  with  painted  bowl  and  amber  mouth 
piece. 


MOSSES   FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

It  might  be  apprehended,  however,  that  as  the  life 
of  the  illusion  seemed  identical  with  the  vapor  of  the 
pipe,  it  would  terminate  simultaneously  with  the  reduc 
tion  of  the  tobacco  to  ashes.  But  the  beldam  foresaw 
the  difficulty. 

"  Hold  thou  the  pipe,  my  precious  one,"  said  she, 
44  while  I  fill  it  for  thee  again." 

It  was  sorrowfid  to  behold  how  the  fine  gentleman 
began  to  fade  back  into  a  scarecrow  while  Mother 
Rigby  shook  the  ashes  out  of  the  pipe  and  proceeded 
to  replenish  it  from  her  tobacco-box. 

"  Dickon,"  cried  she,  in  her  high,  sharp  tone,  "  an 
other  coal  for  this  pipe !  " 

No  sooner  said  than  the  intensely  red  speck  of  fire 
was  glowing  within  the  pipe-bowl ;  and  the  scarecrow, 
without  waiting  for  the  witch's  bidding,  applied  the 
tube  to  his  lips  and  drew  in  a  few  short,  convulsive 
whiffs,  which  soon,  however,  became  regular  and  equa 
ble. 

"Now,  mine  own  heart's  darling,"  quoth  Mother 
Rigby,  "  whatever  may  happen  to  thee,  thou  must 
stick  to  thy  pipe.  Thy  life  is  in  it ;  and  that,  at  least, 
thou  knowest  well,  if  thou  knowest  nought  besides. 
Stick  to  thy  pipe,  I  say !  Smoke,  puff,  blow  thy  cloud ; 
and  tell  the  people,  if  any  question  be  made,  that  it  is 
for  thy  health,  and  that  so  the  physician  orders  thee  to 
do.  And,  sweet  one,  when  thou  shalt  find  thy  pipe 
getting  low,  go  apart  into  some  corner,  and  (first  fill 
ing  thyself  with  smoke)  cry  sharply,  '  Dickon,  a  fresh 
pipe  of  tobacco  ! '  and,  '  Dickon,  another  coal  for  my 
pipe !  '  and  have  it  into  thy  pretty  mouth  as  speedily  as 
may  be.  Else,  instead  of  a  gallant  gentleman  in  a 
gold-laced  coat,  thou  wilt  be  but  a  jumble  of  sticks  and 
tattered  clothes,  and  a  bag  of  straw,  and  a  withered 


FEATHERTOP:   A    MORALIZED  LEGEND.     267 

pumpkin  !  Now  depart,  my  treasure,  and  good  luck 
go  with  thee !  " 

"  Never  fear,  mother ! "  said  the  figure,  in  a  stout 
voice,  and  sending  forth  a  courageous  whiff  of  smoke, 
"  I  will  thrive,  if  an  honest  man  and  a  gentleman 
may !  " 

"  Oh,  thou  wilt  be  the  death  of  me !  "  cried  the  old 
witch,  convulsed  with  laughter.  "  That  was  well  said. 
If  an  honest  man  and  a  gentleman  may  !  Thou  play- 
est  thy  part  to  perfection.  Get  along  with  thee  for  a 
smart  fellow  ;  and  I  will  wager  on  thy  head,  as  a  man 
of  pith  and  substance,  with  a  brain  and  what  they  call 
a  heart,  and  all  else  that  a  man  should  have,  against 
jiny  other  thing  on  two  legs.  I  hold  myself  a  better 
witch  than  yesterday,  for  thy  sake.  Did  not  I  make 
thee?  And  I  defy  any  witch  in  New  England  to 
make  such  another  !  Here ;  take  my  staff  along  with 
thee ! " 

The  staff,  though  it  was  but  a  plain  oaken  stick,  im 
mediately  took  the  aspect  of  a  gold-headed  cane. 

"  That  gold  head  has  as  much  sense  in  it  as  thine 
own,"  said  Mother  Rigby,  "  and  it  will  guide  thee 
straight  to  worshipful  Master  Gookin's  door.  Get 
thee  gone,  my  pretty  pet,  my  darling,  my  precious  one, 
my  treasure  ;  and  if  any  ask  thy  name,  it  is  Feathertop. 
For  thou  hast  a  feather  in  thy  hat,  and  I  have  thrust  a 
handful  of  feathers  into  the  hollow  of  thy  head,  and 
thy  wig,  too,  is  of  the  fashion  they  call  Feathertop,  — 
so  be  Feathertop  thy  name !  " 

And,  issuing  from  the  cottage,  Feathertop  strode 
manfully  towards  town.  Mother  Rigby  stood  at  the 
threshold,  well  pleased  to  see  how  the  sunbeams  glis 
tened  on  him,  as  if  all  his  magnificence  were  real,  and 
how  diligently  and  lovingly  he  smoked  his  pipe,  and 


268          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

how  handsomely  he  walked,  in  spite  of  a  little  stiffness 
of  his  legs.  She  watched  him  until  out  of  sight,  and 
threw  a  witch  benediction  after  her  darling,  when  a 
turn  of  the  road  snatched  him  from  her  view. 

Betimes  in  the  forenoon,  when  the  principal  street 
of  the  neighboring  town  was  just  at  its  acme  of  life 
and  bustle,  a  stranger  of  very  distinguished  figure  was 
seen  on  the  sidewalk.  His  port  as  well  as  his  gar 
ments  betokened  nothing  short  of  nobility.  He  wore 
a  richly-embroidered  plum-colored  coat,  a  waistcoat  of 
costly  velvet,  magnificently  adorned  with  golden  foli 
age,  a  pair  of  splendid  scarlet  breeches,  and  the  finest 
and  glossiest  of  white  silk  stockings.  His  head  was 
covered  with  a  peruke,  so  daintily  powdered  and  ad 
justed  that  it  would  have  been  sacrilege  to  disorder  it 
#lth  a  hat ;  which,  therefore  (and  it  was  a  gold-laced 
hat,  set  off  with  a  snowy  feather),  he  carried  beneath 
his  arm.  On  the  breast  of  his  coat  glistened  a  star. 
He  managed  his  gold-headed  cane  with  an  airy  grace, 
peculiar  to  the  fine  gentlemen  of  the  period ;  and,  to 
give  the  highest  possible  finish  to  his  equipment,  he 
had  lace  ruffles  at  his  wrist,  of  a  most  ethereal  delicacy, 
sufficiently  avouching  how  idle  and  aristocratic  must 
be  the  hands  which  they  half  concealed. 

It  was  a  remarkable  point  in  the  accoutrement  of 
this  brilliant  personage  that  he  held  in  his  left  hand  a 
fantastic  kind  of  a  pipe,  with  an  exquisitely  painted 
bowl  and  an  amber  mouthpiece.  This  he  applied  to 
his  lips  as  often  as  every  five  or  six  paces,  and  inhaled 
a  deep  whiff  of  smoke,  which,  after  being  retained  a 
moment  in  his  lungs,  might  be  seen  to  eddy  gracefully 
from  his  mouth  and  nostrils. 

As  may  well  be  supposed,  the  street  was  all  astir  t3 
find  out  the  stranger's  name. 


FEATHERTOP:  A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.     269 

"  It  is  some  great  nobleman,  beyond  question,"  said 
Dne  of  the  towns-people.  "  Do  you  see  the  star  at  his 
breast  ?  " 

"  Nay ;  it  is  too  bright  to  be  seen,"  said  another, 
"  Yes ;  he  must  needs  be  a  nobleman,  as  you  say.  But 
by  what  conveyance,  think  you,  can  his  lordship  have 
voyaged  or  travelled  hither  ?  There  has  been  no  ves 
sel  from  the  old  country  for  a  month  past ;  and  if  he 
have  arrived  overland  from  the  southward,  pray  where 
are  his  attendants  and  equipage  ?  " 

"  He  needs  no  equipage  to  set  off  his  rank,"  re 
marked  a  third.  "  If  he  came  among  us  in  rags,  no 
bility  would  shine  through  a  hole  in  his  elbow.  I  never 
saw  such  dignity  of  aspect.  He  has  the  old  Norman 
blood  in  his  veins,  I  warrant  him." 

"  I  rather  take  him  to  be  a  Dutchman,  or  one  of 
your  high  Germans,"  said  another  citizen.  "  The 
men  of  those  countries  have  always  the  pipe  at  their 
mouths." 

"And  so  has  a  Turk,"  answered  his  companion. 
"  But,  in  my  judgment,  this  stranger  hath  been  bred  at 
the  French  court,  and  hath  there  learned  politeness  and 
grace  of  manner,  which  none  understand  so  well  as  the 
nobility  of  France.  That  gait,  now !  A  vulgar  spec 
tator  might  deem  it  stiff  —  he  might  call  it  a  hitch  and 
jerk  —  but,  to  my  eye,  it  hath  an  unspeakable  majesty, 
and  must  have  been  acquired  by  constant  observation 
of  the  deportment  of  the  Grand  Monarque.  The 
stranger's  character  and  office  are  evident  enough.  He 
is  a  French  ambassador,  come  to  treat  with  our  rulers 
about  the  cession  of  Canada." 

"  More  probably  a  Spaniard,"  said  another,  "  and 
hence  his  yellow  complexion;  or,  most  likely,  he  is 
from  the  Havana,  or  from  some  port  on  the  Spanish 


270  MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

main,  and  comes  to  make  investigation  about  the  pira 
cies  which  our  government  is  thought  to  connive  at. 
Those  settlers  in  Peru  and  Mexico  have  skins  as  yel 
low  as  the  gold  which  they  dig  out  of  their  mines." 

"Yellow  or  not,"  cried  a  lady,  "he  is  a  beautiful 
man !  —  so  tall,  so  slender !  such  a  fine,  noble  face, 
with  so  well-shaped  a  nose,  and  all  that  delicacy  of 
expression  about  the  mouth !  And,  bless  me,  how 
bright  his  star  is  !  It  positively  shoots  out  flames !  " 

"  So  do  your  eyes,  fair  lady,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
a  bow  and  a  flourish  of  his  pipe  ;  for  he  was  just  pass 
ing  at  the  instant.  "  Upon  my  honor,  they  have  quite 
dazzled  me." 

"  Was  ever  so  original  and  exquisite  a  compliment  ?  " 
murmured  the  lady,  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

Amid  the  general  admiration  excited  by  the  strain 

ger's  appearance,  there  were  only  two  dissenting  voices. 

One  was  that  of  an  impertinent  cur,  which,  after  snuff 

ing  at  the  heels  of  the  glistening  figure,  put  its  tail  be- 

itween  its  legs  and  skulked  into  its  master's  back  yard, 

'  vociferating  an  execrable  howl.     The  other  dissentient 

was  a  young  child,  who  squalled  at  the  fullest  stretch 

of  his  lungs,  and  babbled  some  unintelligible  nonsense 

about  a  pumpkin. 

Feathertop  meanwhile  pursued  his  way  along  the 
street.  Except  for  the  few  complimentary  words  to 
the  lady,  and  now  and  then  a  slight  inclination  of  the 
head  in  requital  of  the  profound  reverences  of  the 
bystanders,  he  seemed  wholly  absorbed  in  his  pipe. 
There  needed  no  other  proof  of  his  rank  and  conse 
quence  than  the  perfect  equanimity  with  which  he  com 
ported  himself,  while  the  curiosity  and  admiration  of 
the  town  swelled  almost  into  clamor  around  him. 
With  a  crowd  gathering  behind  his  footsteps,  he  finally 


FEATHERTOP:  A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.    271 

reached  the  mansion-house  of  the  worshipful  Justice 
Gookin,  entered  the  gate,  ascended  the  steps  of  the 
front  door,  and  knocked.  In  the  interim,  before  his 
Bummons  was  answered,  the  stranger  was  observed  to 
shake  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

"  What  did  he  say  in  that  sharp  voice  ?  "  inquired 
one  of  the  spectators. 

"Nay,  I  know  not,"  answered  his  friend.  "  But  the 
sun  dazzles  my  eyes  strangely.  How  dim  and  faded 
his  lordship  looks  all  of  a  sudden !  Bless  my  wits, 
what  is  the  matter  with  me  ?  " 

"  The  wonder  is,"  said  the  other,  "  that  his  pipe, 
which  was  out  only  an  instant  ago,  should  be  all  alight 
again,  and  with  the  reddest  coal  I  ever  saw.  There  is 
something  mysterious  about  this  stranger.  What  a 
whiff  of  smoke  was  that !  Dim  and  faded  did  you  call 
him  ?  Why,  as  he  turns  about  the  star  on  his  breast 
is  all  ablaze." 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  his  companion  ;  "  and  it  will  go 
near  to  dazzle  pretty  Polly  Gookiii,  whom  I  see  peep 
ing  at  it  out  of  the  chamber  window." 

The  door  being  now  opened,  Feathertop  turned  to 
the  crowd,  made  a  stately  bend  of  his  body  like  a  great 
man  acknowledging  the  reverence  of  the  meaner  sort, 
and  vanished  into  the  house.  There  was  a  mysterious 
kind  of  a  smile,  if  it  might  not  better  be  called  a  grin 
or  grimace,  upon  his  visage;  but,  of  all  the  throng 
that  beheld  him,  not  an  individual  appears  to  have 
possessed  insight  enough  to  detect  the  illusive  charac 
ter  of  the  stranger  except  a  little  child  and  a  cur  dog0 

Our  legend  here  loses  somewhat  of  its  continuity, 
and,  passing  over  the  preliminary  explanation  between 
Feathertop  and  the  merchant,  goes  in  quest  of  the 
pretty  Polly  Gookin.  She  was  a  damsel  of  a  soft, 


272          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

round  figure,  with  light  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  a  fairt 
rosy  face,  which  seemed  neither  very  shrewd  nor  very 
Bimple.  This  young  lady  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
glistening  stranger  while  standing  at  the  threshold,  and 
had  forthwith  put  on  a  laced  cap,  a  string  of  beads, 
her  finest  kerchief,  and  her  stiffest  damask  petticoat 
in  preparation  for  the  interview.  Hurrying  from  her 
chamber  to  the  parlor,  she  had  ever  since  been  viewing 
herself  in  the  large  looking-glass  and  practising  pretty 
airs  —  now  a  smile,  now  a  ceremonious  dignity  of  as 
pect,  and  now  a  softer  smile  than  the  former,  kissing 
her  hand  likewise,  tossing  her  head,  and  managing  her 
fan ;  while  within  the  mirror  an  unsubstantial  little 
maid  repeated  every  gesture  and  did  all  the  foolish 
things  that  Polly  did,  but  without  making  her  ashamed 
of  them.  In  short,  it  was  the  fault  of  pretty  Polly's 
ability  rather  than  her  will  if  she  failed  to  be  as  com* 
plete  an  artifice  as  the  illustrious  Feathertop  himself-, 
and,  when  she  thus  tampered  with  her  own  simplicity, 
the  witch's  phantom  might  well  hope  to  win  her. 

No  sooner  did  Polly  hear  her  father's  gouty  foot 
steps  approaching  the  parlor  door,  accompanied  with 
the  stiff  clatter  of  Feathertop's  high-heeled  shoes,  than 
she  seated  herself  bolt  upright  and  innocently  began 
warbling  a  song. 

"Polly  !  daughter  Polly  !  "  cried  the  old  merchant. 
"  Come  hither,  child." 

Master  Gookin's  aspect,  as  he  opened  the  door,  was 
doubtful  and  troubled. 

"  Tliis  gentleman,"  continued  he,  presenting  the 
stranger,  "  is  the  Chevalier  Feathertop,  —  nay,  I  beg 
his  pardon,  my  Lord  Feathertop,  —  who  hath  brought 
me  a  token  of  remembrance  from  an  ancient  friend  of 
mine.  Pay  your  duty  to  his  lordship,  child,  and  honor 
him  as  his  quality  deserves." 


FEATHERTOP:  A    MORALIZED  LEGEND.    273 

After  these  few  words  of  introduction,  the  worship 
ful  magistrate  immediately  quitted  the  room.  But, 
even  in  that  brief  moment,  had  the  fair  Polly  glanced 
aside  at  her  father  instead  of  devoting  herself  wholly 
to  the  brilliant  guest,  she  might  have  taken  warning  of 
some  mischief  nigh  at  hand.  The  old  man  was  nervous, 
fidgety,  and  very  pale.  Purposing  a  smile  of  courtesy, 
he  had  deformed  his  face  with  a  sort  of  galvanic  grin, 
which,  when  Feathertop's  back  was  turned,  he  ex 
changed  for  a  scowl,  at  the  same  time  shaking  his 
fist  and  stamping  his  gouty  foot  —  an  incivility  which 
brought  its  retribution  along  with  it.  The  truth  ap 
pears  to  have  been  that  Mother  TCigby's  word  of  intro* 
duction,  whatever  it  might  be,  had  operated  far  more 
on  the  rich  merchant's  fears  than  on  his  good  will 
Moreover,  being  a  man  of  wonderfully  acute  observe 
tion,  he  had  noticed  that  these  painted  figures  on  the 
bowl  of  Feathertop's  pipe  were  in  motion.  Looking 
more  closely,  he  became  convinced  that  these  ftgiires 
were  a  party  of  little  demons,  each  duly  provided 
with  horns  and  a  tail,  and  dancing  hand  in  hand,  with 
gestures  of  diabolical  merriment,  round  the  circum 
ference  of  the  pipe  bowl.  As  if  to  confirm  his  suspi 
cions,  while  Master  Gookin  ushered  his  guest  along 
a  dusky  passage  from  his  private  room  to  the  parlor, 
the  star  on  Feathertop's  breast  had  scintillated  actual 
flames,  and  threw  a  flickering  gleam  upon  the  wall, 
the  ceiling,  and  the  floor. 

With  such  sinister  prognostics  manifesting  thorn- 
selves  on  all  hands,  it  is  not  to  be  marvelled  at  that 
the  merchant  should  have  felt  that  he  was  committing 
his  daughter  to  a  very  questionable  acquaintance.  He 
eursed,  in  his  secret  soul,  the  insinuating  elegance 
of  Feathertop's  manners,  as  this  brilliant  personage 

VOL.   II.  18 


274          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

bowed,  smiled,  put  his  hand  on  his  heart,  inhaled  a 
long  whiff  from  his  pipe,  and  enriched  the  atmosphere 
with  the  smoky  vapor  of  a  fragrant  and  visible  sigh. 
Gladly  would  poor  Master  Gookin  have  thrust  his 
dangerous  guest  into  the  street ;  but  there  was  a  con 
straint  and  terror  within  him.  This  respectable  old 
gentleman,  we  fear,  at  an  earlier  period  of  life,  had 
given  some  pledge  or  other  to  the  evil  principle,  and 
perhaps  was  now  co  redeem  it  by  the  sacrifice  of  his 
daughter. 

It  so  happened  that  the  parlor  door  was  partly  of 
glass,  shaded  by  a  silken  curtain,  the  folds  of  which 
hung  a  little  awry.  So  strong  was  the  merchant's  in 
terest  in  witnessing  what  was  to  ensue  between  the  fair 
Polly  and  the  gallant  tfeathertop  that,  after  quitting 
the  room,  he  could  by  no  means  refrain  from  peeping 
through  the  cvevice  of  the  curtain. 

But  there  was  nothing  very  miraculous  to  be  seen; 
nothing  —  except  the  trifles  previously  noticed  —  to 
confirm  the  idea  of  a  supernatural  peril  environing 
the  pretty  Polly.  The  stranger  it  is  true  was  evi 
dently  a  thorough  and  practised  man  of  the  world,  sys 
tematic  and  self-possessed,  and  therefore  the  sort  of  a 
person  to  whom  a  parent  ought  not  to  confide  a  sim 
ple,  young  girl  without  due  watchfulness  for  the  result. 
The  worthy  magistrate,  who  had  been  conversant  with 
all  degrees  and  qualities  of  mankind,  could  not  but 
perceive  every  motion  and  gesture  of  the  distinguished 
Feathertop  <3ame  in  its  proper  place ;  nothing  had 
been  left  rude  or  native  in  him ;  a  well-digested  con 
ventionalism  had  incorporated  itself  thoroughly  with 
his  substance  and  transformed  him  into  a  work  of  art. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  peculiarity  that  invested  him  with 
a  species  of  ghastliness  and  awe.  It  is  the  effect 


FEATHERTOP:   A    MORALIZED  LEGEND.     275 

of  anything  completely  and  consummately  artificial,  in 
human  shape,  that  the  person  impresses  us  as  an  un 
reality  and  as  having  hardly  pith  enough  to  cast  a 
shadow  upon  the  floor.  As  regarded  Feathertop,  all 
this  resulted  in  a  wild,  extravagant,  and  fantastical 
impression,  as  if  his  life  and  being  were  akin  to  the 
smoke  that  curled  upward  from  his  pipe. 

But  pretty  Polly  Gookin  felt  not  thus.  The  pair 
were  now  promenading  the  room :  Feathertop  with  his 
dainty  stride  and  no  less  dainty  grimace ;  the  girl  with 
a  native  maidenly  grace,  just  touched,  not  spoiled,  by 
a  slightly  affected  manner,  which  seemed  caught  from 
the  perfect  artifice  of  her  companion.  The  longer 
the  interview  continued,  the  more  charmed  was  pretty 
Polly,  until,  within  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  (as 
the  old  magistrate  noted  by  his  watch),  she  was  evi 
dently  beginning  to  be  in  love.  Nor  need  it  have 
been  witchcraft  that  subdued  her  in  such  a  hurry ; 
the  poor  child's  heart,  it  may  be,  was  so  very  fervent 
that  it  melted  her  with  its  own  warmth  as  reflected 
from  the  hollow  semblance  of  a  lover.  No  matter 
what  Feathertop  said,  his  words  found  depth  and  re 
verberation  in  her  ear ;  no  matter  what  he  did,  his 
action  was  heroic  to  her  eye.  And  by  this  time  it  is 
to  be  supposed  there  was  a  blush  on  Polly's  cheek,  a 
tender  smile  about  her  mouth,  and  a  liquid  softness  in 
her  glance ;  while  the  star  kept  coruscating  on  Feath- 
ertop's  breast,  and  the  little  demons  careered  with 
more  frantic  merriment  than  ever  about  the  circum 
ference  of  his  pipe  bowl.  O  pretty  Polly  Gookin, 
why  should  these  imps  rejoice  so  madly  that  a  silly 
maiden's  heart  was  about  to  be  given  to  a  shadow! 
Is  it  so  unusual  a  misfortune,  so  rare  a  triumph  ? 

By  and  by  Feathertop  paused,  and  throwing  himself 


276          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

into  an  imposing  attitude,  seemed  to  summon  the  fail 
girl  to  survey  his  figure  and  resist  him  longer  if  she 
could.  His  star,  his  embroidery,  his  buckles  glowed 
at  that  instant  with  unutterable  splendor  ;  the  pictur 
esque  hues  of  his  attire  took  a  richer  depth  of  color 
ing  ;  there  was  a  gleam  and  polish  over  his  whole  pres 
ence  betokening  the  perfect  witchery  of  well-ordered 
manners.  The  maiden  raised  her  eyes  and  suffered 
them  to  linger  upon  her  companion  with  a  bashful 
and  admiring  gaze.  Then,  as  if  desirous  of  judging 
what  value  her  own  simple  comeliness  might  have  side 
by  side  with  so  much  brilliancy,  she  cast  a  glance 
towards  the  full-length  looking-glass  in  front  of  which 
they  happened  to  be  standing.  It  was  one  of  the  tru 
est  plates  in  the  world  and  incapable  of  flattery.  No 
sooner  did  the  images  therein  reflected  meet  Polly's 
eye  than  she  shrieked,  shrank  from  the  stranger's  side, 
gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  in  the  wildest  dismay,  and 
sank  insensible  upon  the  floor.  Feathertop  likewise 
had  looked  towards  the  mirror,  and  there  beheld,  not 
the  glittering  mockery  of  his  outside  show,  but  a  pict 
ure  of  the  sordid  patchwork  of  his  real  composition, 
stripped  of  all  witchcraft. 

The  wretched  simulacrum!  We  almost  pity  him. 
He  threw  up  his  arms  with  an  expression  of  despaii 
that  went  further  than  any  of  his  previous  manifes 
tations  towards  vindicating  his  claims  to  be  reckoned 
human  ;  for,  perchance  the  only  time  since  this  so 
often  empty  and  deceptive  life  of  mortals  began  its 
course,  an  illusion  had  seen  and  fully  recognized  itself. 

Mother  Rigby  was  seated  by  her  kitchen  hearth  in 
the  twilight  of  this  eventful  day,  and  had  just  shaken 
the  ashes  out  of  a  new  pipe,  when  she  heard  a  hurried 
tramp  along  the  road.  Yet  it  did  not  seem  so  much 


FEATHERTOP.   A   MORALIZED  LEGEND.    277 

the  tramp  of  human  footsteps  as  the  clatter  of  sticks 
or  the  rattling  of  dry  bones. 

"  Ha !  "  thought  the  old  witch,  "  what  step  is  that? 
Whose  skeleton  is  out  of  its  grave  now,  I  wonder  ?  " 

A  figure  burst  headlong  into  the  cottage  door.  It 
was  Feathertop  !  His  pipe  was  still  alight ;  the  star 
still  flamed  upon  his  breast;  the  embroidery  still 
glowed  upon  his  garments  ;  nor  had  he  lost,  in  any  de 
gree  or  manner  that  could  be  estimated,  the  aspect 
that  assimilated  him  with  our  mortal  brotherhood. 
But  yet,  in  some  indescribable  way  (as  is  the  case 
with  all  that  has  deluded  us  when  once  found  out),  the 
poor  reality  was  felt  beneath  the  cunning  artifice. 

"  What  has  gone  wrong  ?  "  demanded  the  witch. 
"  Did  yonder  sniffling  hypocrite  thrust  my  darling 
from  his  door  ?  The  villain  !  I  '11  set  twenty  fiends 
to  torment  him  till  he  offer  thee  his  daughter  on  his 
bended  knees ! " 

"  No,  mother,"  said  Feathertop  despondingly ;  "  it 
was  not  that." 

"  Did  the  girl  scorn  my  precious  one  ? "  asked 
Mother  Rigby,  her  fierce  eyes  glowing  like  two  coals 
of  Tophet.  "  I  '11  cover  her  face  with  pimples  !  Her 
nose  shall  be  as  red  as  the  coal  in  thy  pipe  1  Her 
front  teeth  shall  drop  out!*  In  a  week  hence  she  shall 
not  be  worth  thy  having  !»" 

"  Let  her  alone,  mother,"  answered  poor  Feather, 
top ;  "  the  girl  was  half  won ;  and  methinks  a  kiss 
from  her  sweet  lips  might  have  made  me  altogether 
human.  But,"  he  added,  after  a  brief  pause  and  then 
a  howl  of  self -contempt,  "  I  've  seen  myself,  mother  ! 
I've  seen  myself  for  the  wretched,  ragged,  empty 
thing  I  am  !  I  '11  exist  no  longer ! " 

Snatching  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  he  flung  it  with 


278  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 


all  his  might  against  the  chimney,  and  at  the  same  in 
stant  sank  upon  the  floor,  a  medley  of  straw  and  tat 
tered  garments,  with  some  sticks  protruding  from  the 
heap,  and  a  shrivelled  pumpkin  in  the  midst.  The 
eyeholes  were  now  lustreless;  but  the  rudely-carved 
gap,  that  just  before  had  been  a  mouth,  still  seemed 
to  twist  itself  into  a  despairing  grin,  and  was  so  far 
human. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  with  a  rueful 
glance  at  the  relics  of  her  ill-fated  contrivance.  "  My 
poor,  dear,  pretty  Feathertop !  There  are  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  coxcombs  and  charlatans  in  the 
world,  made  up  of  just  such  a  jumble  of  wornout,  for 
gotten,  and  good-for-nothing  trash  as  he  was!  Yet 
they  live  in  fair  repute,  and  never  see  themselves  for 
what  they  are.  And  why  should  my  poor  puppet  be 
the  only  one  to  know  himself  and  perish  for  it  ?  " 

While  thus  muttering,  the  witch  had  filled  a  fresh 
pipe  of  tobacco,  and  held  the  stem  between  her  fingers, 
as  doubtful  whether  to  thrust  it  into  her  own  mouth  or 
Feathertop's. 

"  Poor  Feathertop  !  "  she  continued.  "  I  could  easily 
give  him  another  chance  and  send  him  forth  again  to 
morrow.  But  no ;  his  feelings  are  too  tender,  his  sen 
sibilities  too  deep.  He  seems  to  have  too  much  heart 
to  bustle  for  his  own  advantage  in  such  an  empty  and 
heartless  world.  Well !  well !  I  '11  make  a  scarecrow 
of  him  after  all.  'T  is  an  innocent  and  useful  voca 
tion,  and  will  suit  my  darling  well ;  and,  if  each  of 
his  human  brethren  had  as  fit  a  one,  't  would  be  the 
better  for  mankind ;  and  as  for  this  pipe  of  tobacco, 
I  need  it  more  than  he." 

So  saying,  Mother  Rigby  put  the  stem  between  her 
lips.  "  Dickon  !  "  cried  she,  in  her  high,  sharp  tone, 
*  another  coal  for  my  pipe !  " 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 

WE  who  are  born  into  the  world's  artificial  system 
can  never  adequately  know  how  little  in  our  present 
state  and  circumstances  is  natural,  and  how  much  is 
merely  the  interpolation  of  the  perverted  mind  and 
heart  of  man.  Art  has  become  a  second  and  stronger 
nature ;  she  is  a  stepmother,  whose  crafty  tenderness 
has  taught  us  to  despise  the  bountiful  and  wholesome 
ministrations  of  our  true  parent.  It  is  only  through  | 
the  medium  of  the  imagination  that  we  can  lessen 
those  iron  fetters,  which  we  call  truth  and  reality,  and 
make  ourselves  even  partially  sensible  what  prisoners 
we  are.  For  instance,  let  us  conceive  good  Father  Mil 
ler's  interpretation  of  the  prophecies  to  have  proved 
true.  The  Day  of  Doom  has  burst  upon  the  globe 
and  swept  away  the  whole  race  of  men.  From  cities 
and  fields,  sea-shore  and  midland  mountain  region,  vast 
continents,  and  even  the  remotest  islands  of  the  ocean, 
each  living  thing  is  gone.  No  breath  of  a  created  be 
ing  disturbs  this  earthly  atmosphere.  But  the  abodes 
of  man,  and  all  that  he  has  accomplished,  the  foot 
prints  of  his  wanderings  and  the  results  of  his  toil, 
the  visible  symbols  of  his  intellectual  cultivation  and 
moral  progress  —  in  short,  everything  physical  that 
can  give  evidence  of  his  present  position  —  shall  re 
main  untouched  by  the  hand  of  destiny.  Then,  to 
inherit  and  repeople  this  waste  and  deserted  earth, 
we  will  suppose  a  new  Adam  and  a  new  Eve  to  have 
been  created,  in  the  full  development  of  mind  and 


280          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

heart,  but  with  no  knowledge  of  their  predecessors 
nor  of  the  diseased  circumstances  that  had  become  en 
crusted  around  them.  Such  a  pair  would  at  once  dis 
tinguish  between  art  and  nature.  Their  instincts  and 
intuitions  would  immediately  recognize  the  wisdom 
and  simplicity  of  the  latter  ;  while  the  former  with  its 
elaborate  perversities,  would  offer  them  a  continual 
succession  of  puzzles. 

Let  us  attempt  in  a  mood  half  sportive  and  half 
thoughtful,  to  track  these  imaginary  heirs  of  our  mor 
tality  through  their  first  day's  experience.  No  longer 
ago  than  yesterday  the  flame  of  human  life  was  extin 
guished  ;  there  has  been  a  breathless  night ;  and  now 
another  morn  approaches  expecting  to  find  the  earth 
no  less  desolate  than  at  eventide. 

It  is  dawn.  The  east  puts  on  its  immemorial  blush, 
although  no  human  eye  is  gazing  at  it ;  for  all  the 
phenomena  of  the  natural  world  renew  themselves,  in 
spite  of  the  solitude  that  now  broods  around  the  globe. 
There  is  still  beauty  of  earth,  sea,  and  sky  for  beauty's 
sake.  But  soon  there  are  to  be  spectators.  Just 
when  the  earliest  sunshine  gilds  earth's  mountain 
tops,  two  beings  have  come  into  life,  not  in  such  an 
Eden  as  bloomed  to  welcome  our  first  parents,  but  in 
the  heart  of  a  modern  city.  They  find  themselves  in 
existence,  and  gazing  into  one  another's  eyes.  Their 
emotion  is  not  astonishment;  nor  do  they  perplex 
themselves  with  efforts  to  discover  what,  and  whence, 
and  why  they  are.  Each  is  satisfied  to  be,  because 
the  other  exists  likewise  ;  and  their  first  consciousness 
is  of  calm  and  mutual  enjoyment,  which  seems  not 
to  have  been  the  birth  of  that  very  moment,  but  pro 
longed  from  a  past  eternity.  Thus  content  with  an 
inner  sphere  which  they  inhabit  together,  it  is  not 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  281 

immediately  that  the  outward  world  can  obtrude  itself 
upon  their  notice. 

Soon,  however,  they  feel  the  invincible  necessity  of 
this  earthly  life,  and  begin  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  objects  and  circumstances  that  surround  them. 
Perhaps  no  other  stride  so  vast  remains  to  be  taken 
as  when  they  first  turn  from  the  reality  of  their  mu 
tual  glance  to  the  dreams  and  shadows  that  perplex 
them  everywhere  else. 

"  Sweetest  Eve,  where  are  we  ?  "  exclaims  the  new 
Adam ;  for  speech,  or  some  equivalent  mode  of  ex 
pression,  is  born  with  them,  and  comes  just  as  nat 
ural  as  breath.  "  Methinks  I  do  not  recognize  this 
place." 

"  Nor  I,  dear  Adam,"  replies  the  new  Eve.  "  And 
what  a  strange  place  too  !  Let  me  come  closer  to  thy 
side  and  behold  thee  only  ;  for  all  other  sights  trouble 
and  perplex  my  spirit." 

"Nay,  Eve,"  replies  Adam,  who  appears  to  have 
the  stronger  tendency  towards  the  material  world  j 
"  it  were  well  that  we  gain  some  insight  into  these 
matters.  We  are  in  an  odd  situation  here.  Let  us 
look  about  us." 

Assuredly  there  are  sights  enough  to  throw  the  new 
inheritors  of  earth  into  a  state  of  hopeless  perplexity. 
The  long  lines  of  edifices,  their  windows  glittering  in 
the  yellow  sunrise,  and  the  narrow  street  between, 
with  its  barren  pavement  tracked  and  battered  by 
wheels  that  have  now  rattled  into  an  irrevocable  past ! 
The  signs,  with  their  unintelligible  hieroglyphics ! 
The  squareness  and  ugliness,  and  regular  or  irregular 
deformity  of  everything  that  meets  the  eye!  The 
marks  of  wear  and  tear,  and  unrenewed  decay,  which 
distinguish  the  works  of  man  from  the  growth  of  na- 


282          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ture  !  What  is  there  in  all  this  capable  of  the  slight 
est  significance  to  minds  that  know  nothing  of  the  ar 
tificial  system  which  is  implied  in  every  lamp  post  and 
each  brick  of  the  houses  ?  Moreover,  the  utter  loneli 
ness  and  silence,  in  a  scene  that  originally  grew  out  of 
noise  and  bustle,  must  needs  impress  a  feeling  of  des 
olation  even  upon  Adam  and  Eve,  unsuspicious  as 
they  are  of  the  recent  extinction  of  human  existence. 
In  a  forest,  solitude  would  be  life  ;  in  a  city,  it  is 
death. 

The  new  Eve  looks  round  with  a  sensation  of  doubt 
and  distrust,  such  as  a  city  dame,  the  daughter  of  num 
berless  generations  of  citizens,  might  experience  if  sud 
denly  transported  to  the  garden  of  Eden.  At  length 
her  downcast  eye  discovers  a  small  tuft  of  grass,  just 
beginning  to  sprout  among  the  stones  of  the  pave 
ment  ;  she  eagerly  grasps  it,  and  is  sensible  that  this 
little  herb  awakens  some  response  within  her  heart. 
Nature  finds  nothing  else  to  offer  her.  Adam,  after 
staring  up  and  down  the  street  without  detecting  a 
single  object  that  his  comprehension  can  lay  hold 
of,  finally  turns  his  forehead  to  the  sky.  There,  in 
deed,  is  something  which  the  soul  within  him  recog 
nizes. 

"  Look  up  yonder,  mine  own  Eve,"  he  cries;  "  surely 
we  ought  to  dwell  among  those  gold-tinged  clouds  or 
in  the  blue  depths  beyond  them.  I  know  not  how 
nor  when,  but  evidently  we  have  strayed  away  from 
our  home ;  for  I  see  nothing  hereabouts  that  seems 
to  belong  to  us." 

"  Can  we  not  ascend  thither  ?  "  inquires  Eve. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  answers  Adam  hopefully.  "  But  no; 
something  drags  us  down  in  spite  of  our  best  efforts, 
Perchance  we  may  find  a  path  hereafter." 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  283 

In  the  energy  of  new  life  it  appears  no  such  imprac 
ticable  feat  to  climb  into  the  sky.  But  they  have  al 
ready  received  a  woful  lesson,  which  may  finally  go 
far  towards  reducing  them  to  the  level  of  the  departed 
race,  when  they  acknowledge  the  necessity  of  keeping 
the  beaten  track  of  earth.  They  now  set  forth  on  a 
ramble  through  the  city,  in  the  hope  of  making  their 
escape  from  this  uncongenial -sphere.  Already  in  the 
fresh  elasticity  of  their  spirits  they  have  found  the 
idea  of  weariness.  We  will  watch  them  as  they  enter 
some  of  the  shops  and  public  or  private  edifices  ;  for 
every  door,  whether  of  alderman  or  beggar,  church  or 
hall  of  state,  has  been  flung  wide  open  by  the  same 
agency  that  swept  away  the  inmates. 

It  so  happens  —  and  not  unluckily  for  an  Adam 
and  Eve  who  are  still  in  the  costume  that  might  bet 
ter  have  befitted  Eden  —  it  so  happens  that  their  first 
visit  is  to  a  fashionable  dry  goods  store.  No  cour 
teous  and  importunate  attendants  hasten  to  receive 
their  orders ;  no  throng  of  ladies  are  tossing  over 
the  rich  Parisian  fabrics.  All  is  deserted;  trade 
is  at  a  stand-still,  and  not  even  an  echo  of  the  na 
tional  watchword,  "  Go  ahead !  "  disturbs  the  quiet 
of  the  new  customers.  But  specimens  of  the  latest 
earthly  fashions,  silks  of  every  shade,  and  whatever 
is  most  delicate  or  splendid  for  the  decoration  of 
the  human  form,  lie  scattered  around,  profusely  as 
bright  autumnal  leaves  in  a  forest.  Adam  looks  at  a 
few  of  the  articles  but  throws  them  carelessly  aside 
with  whatever  exclamation  may  correspond  to  "  Pish !  " 
or  "  Pshaw !  "  in  the  new  vocabulary  of  nature.  Eve, 
however,  —  be  it  said  without  offence  to  her  native 
modesty,  —  examines  these  treasures  of  her  sex  with 
somewhat  livelier  interest.  A  pair  of  corsets  chance 


284          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

to  lie  upon  the  counter ;  she  inspects  them  curiously, 
but  knows  not  what  to  make  of  them.  Then  she 
handles  a  fashionable  silk  with  dim  yearnings,  thoughts 
that  wander  hither  and  thither,  instincts  groping  in  the 
dark. 

"  On  the  whole,  I  do  not  like  it,"  she  observes,  lay- 
ing  the  glossy  fabric  upon  the  counter.  "  But,  Adam, 
it  is  very  strange.  What  can  these  things  mean? 
Surely  I  ought  to  know ;  yet  they  put  me  in  a  per* 
feet  maze." 

"  Poh !  my  dear  Eve,  why  trouble  thy  little  head 
about  such  nonsense?"  cries  Adam,  in  a 'fit  of  impa 
tience.  "  Let  us  go  somewhere  else.  But  stay  ;  how 
very  beautiful !  My  loveliest  Eve,  what  a  charm  you 
have  imparted  to  that  robe  by  merely  throwing  it  over 
your  shoulders  ! " 

For  Eve,  with  the  taste  that  nature  moulded  into 
her  composition,  has  taken  a  remnant  of  exquisite  sil 
ver  gauze  and  drawn  it  around  her  form,  with  an  effect 
that  gives  Adam  his  first  idea  of  the  witchery  of  dress. 
He  beholds  his  spouse  in  a  new  light  and  with  re 
newed  admiration ;  yet  is  hardly  reconciled  to  any 
other  attire  than  her  own  golden  locks.  However, 
emulating  Eve's  example,  he  makes  free  with  a  man 
tle  of  blue  velvet,  and  puts  it  on  so  picturesquely  that 
it  might  seem  to  have  fallen  from  heaven  upon  his 
stately  figure.  Thus  garbed  they  go  in  search  of 
new  discoveries. 

They  next  wander  into  a  church,  not  to  make  a  dis 
play  of  their  fine  clothes,  but  attracted  by  its  spire, 
pointing  upwards  to  the  sky,  whither  they  have  al 
ready  yearned  to  climb.  As  they  enter  the  portal,  a 
clock,  which  it  was  the  last  earthly  act  of  the  sexton 
to  wind  up,  repeats  the  hour  in  deep  reverberating 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  285 

tones ;  for  Time  has  survived  his  former  progeny, 
and,  with  the  iron  tongue  that  man  gave  him,  is  now 
speaking  to  his  two  grandchildren.  They  listen,  but 
understand  him  not.  Nature  would  measure  time 
by  the  succession  of  thoughts  and  acts  which  consti 
tute  real  life,  and  not  by  hours  of  emptiness.  They 
pass  up  the  church  aisle,  and  raise  their  eyes  to  the 
ceiling.  Had  our  Adam  and  Eve  become  mortal  in 
some  European  city,  and  strayed  into  the  vastness 
and  sublimity  of  an  old  cathedral,  they  might  have 
recognized  the  purpose  for  which  the  deep-souled 
founders  reared  it.  Like  the  dim  awfulness  of  an 
ancient  forest,  its  very  atmosphere  would  have  in 
cited  them  to  prayer.  Within  the  snug  walls  of  a 
metropolitan  church  there  can  be  no  such  influence. 

Yet  some  odor  of  religion  is  still  lingering  heret 
the  bequest  of  pious  souls,  who  had  grace  to  enjo^ 
a  foretaste  of  immortal  life.  Perchance  they  breathe 
a  prophecy  of  a  better  world  to  their  successors,  who 
have  become  obnoxious  to  all  their  own  cares  and 
calamities  in  the  present  one. 

"Eve,  something  impels  me  to  look  upward,"  says 
Adam ;  "  but  it  troubles  me  to  see  this  roof  between 
us  and  the  sky.  Let  us  go  forth  and  perhaps  we 
shall  discern  a  Great  Face  looking  down  upon  us." 

"  Yes ;  a  Great  Face,  with  a  beam  of  love  bright 
ening  over  it  like  sunshine,"  responds  Eve.  "  Surely 
we  have  seen  such  a  countenance  somewhere." 

They  go  out  of  the  church  and  kneeling  at  its 
threshold  give  way  to  the  spirit's  natural  instinct  of 
adoration  towards  a  beneficent  Father.  But,  in  truth, 
their  life  thus  far  has  been  a  continual  prayer.  Pu 
rity  and  simplicity  hold  converse  at  every  moment  with 
their  Creator. 


286          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD   MANSE. 

We  now  observe  them  entering  a  Court  of  Justice. 
But  what  remotest  conception  can  they  attain  of  the 
purposes  of  such  an  edifice  ?  How  should  the  idea 
occur  to  them  that  human  brethren,  of  like  nature 
with  themselves,  and  originally  included  in  the  same 
law  of  love  which  is  their  only  rule  of  life,  should  ever 
need  an  outward  enforcement  of  the  true  voice  within 
their  souls  ?  And  what,  save  a  woful  experience,  the 
dark  result  of  many  centuries,  could  teach  them  the 
sad  mysteries  of  crime?  O  Judgment  Seat,  not  by 
the  pure  in  heart  wast  thou  established,  nor  in  the 
simplicity  of  nature ;  but  by  hard  and  wrinkled  men, 
and  upon  the  accumulated  heap  of  earthly  wrong. 
Thou  art  the  very  symbol  of  man's  perverted  state. 

On  as  fruitless  an  errand  our  wanderers  next  visit 
a  Hall  of  Legislation,  where  Adam  places  Eve  in 
the  Speaker's  chair,  unconscious  of  the  moral  which 
he  thus  exemplifies.  Man's  intellect,  moderated  by 
Woman's  tenderness  and  moral  sense !  Were  such 
the  legislation  of  the  world  there  would  be  no  need 
of  State  Houses,  Capitols,  Halls  of  Parliament,  nor 
even  of  those  little  assemblages  of  patriarchs  beneath 
the  shadowy  trees,  by  whom  freedom  was  first  inter 
preted  to  mankind  on  our  native  shores. 

Whither  go  they  next  ?  A  perverse  destiny  seems 
to  perplex  them  with  one  after  another  of  the  riddles 
which  mankind  put  forth  to  the  wandering  universe, 
and  left  unsolved  in  their  own  destruction.  They  en 
ter  an  edifice  of  stern  gray  stone  standing  insulated  in 
the  midst  of  others,  and  gloomy  even  in  the  sunshine, 
which  it  barely  suffers  to  penetrate  through  its  iron- 
grated  windows.  It  is  a  prison.  The  jailer  has  left 
his  post  at  the  summons  of  a  stronger  authority  than 
the  sheriff 's.  But  the  prisoners?  Did  the  messenger 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  287 

of  fate,  when  he  shook  open  all  the  doors,  respect  the 
magistrate's  warrant  and  the  judge's  sentence,  and 
leave  the  inmates  of  the  dungeons  to  be  delivered  by 
due  course  of  earthly  law  ?  No  ;  a  new  trial  has  been 
granted  in  a  higher  court,  which  may  set  judge,  jury, 
and  prisoner  at  its  bar  all  in  a  row,  and  perhaps  find 
one  no  less  guilty  than  another.  The  jail,  like  the 
whole  earth,  is  now  a  solitude,  and  has  thereby  lost 
something  of  its  dismal  gloom.  But  here  are  the 
narrow  cells,  like  tombs,  only  drearier  and  deadlier, 
because  in  these  the  immortal  spirit  was  buried  with 
the  body.  Inscriptions  appear  on  the  walls,  scrib 
bled  with  a  pencil  or  scratched  with  a  rusty  nail ; 
brief  words  of  agony,  perhaps,  or  guilt's  desperate 
defiance  to  the  world,  or  merely  a  record  of  a  date 
by  which  the  writer  strove  to  keep  up  with  the  march 
of  life.  There  is  not  a  living  eye  that  could  now  de 
cipher  these  memorials. 

Nor  is  it  while  so  fresh  from  their  Creator's  hand 
that  the  new  denizens  of  earth  —  no,  nor  their  descend 
ants  for  a  thousand  years — could  discover  that  this 
edifice  was  a  hospital  for  the  direst  disease  which 
could  afflict  their  predecessors.  Its  patients  bore  the 
outward  marks  of  that  leprosy  with  which  all  were 
more  or  less  infected.  They  were  sick  —  and  so 
were  the  purest  of  their  brethren  —  with  the  plague 
of  sin.  A  deadly  sickness,  indeed  !  Feeling  its 
symptoms  within  the  breast,  men  concealed  it  with 
fear  and  shame,  and  were  only  the  more  cruel  to 
those  unfortunates  whose  pestiferous  sores  were  fla 
grant  to  the  common  eye.  Nothing  save  a  rich  gar 
ment  could  ever  hide  the  plague  spot.  In  the  course 
of  the  world's  lifetime,  every  remedy  was  tried  for  its 
cure  and  extirpation  except  the  single  one,  the  flower 


288  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

that  grew  in  heaven  and  was  sovereign  for  all  the 
miseries  of  earth.  Man  never  had  attempted  to  cure 
|  sin  by  LOVE  !  Had  he  but  once  made  the  effort  it 
might  well  have  happened  that  there  would  have  been 
no  more  need  of  the  dark  lazar  house  into  which  Adam 
and  Eve  have  wandered.  Hasten  forth  with  your  na 
tive  innocence,  lest  the  damps  of  these  still  conscious 
walls  infect  you  likewise,  and  thus  another  fallen  race 
be  propagated ! 

Passing  from  the  interior  of  the  prison  into  the 
space  within  its  outward  wall,  Adam  pauses  beneath 
a  structure  of  the  simplest  contrivance,  yet  altogether 
unaccountable  to  him.  It  consists  merely  of  two  up 
right  posts,  supporting  a  transverse  beam,  from  which 
dangles  a  cord. 

"  Eve,  Eve  !  "  cries  Adam,  shuddering  with  a  name' 
less  horror.  "  What  can  this  thing  be  ?  " 

"I  know  not,"  answers  Eve;  "but  Adam,  my  heart 
is  sick  !  There  seems  to  be  no  more  sky  —  no  more 
sunshine !  " 

Well  might  Adam  shudder  and  poor  Eve  be  sick  at 
heart ;  for  this  mysterious  object  was  the  type  of  man 
kind's  whole  system  in  regard  to  the  great  difficulties 
which  God  had  given  to  be  solved  —  a  system  of  fear 
and  vengeance,  never  successful,  yet  followed  to  the 
last.  Here,  on  the  morning  when  the  final  sum 
mons  came,  a  criminal  —  one  criminal,  where  none 
were  guiltless  —  had  died  upon  the  gallows.  Had 
the  world  heard  the  footfall  of  its  own  approaching 
doom,  it  would  have  been  no  inappropriate  act  thus 
to  close  the  record  of  its  deeds  by  one  so  character 
istic. 

The  two  pilgrims  now  hurry  from  the  prison.  Had 
they  known  how  the  former  inhabitants  of  earth  were 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  289 

shut  up  in  artificial  error  and  cramped  and  chained  by 
their  perversions,  they  might  have  compared  the  whole 
moral  world  to  a  prison  house,  and  have  deemed  the 
removal  of  the  race  a  general  jail  delivery. 

They  next  enter,  unannounced,  but  they  might  have 
rung  at  the  door  in  vain,  a  private  mansion,  one  of  the 
stateliest  in  Beacon  Street.  A  wild  and  plaintive 
strain  of  music  is  quivering  through  the  house,  now 
rising  like  a  solemn  organ  peal,  and  now  dying  into 
the  faintest  murmur,  as  if  some  spirit  that  had  felt 
an  interest  in  the  departed  family  were  bemoaning 
itself  in  the  solitude  of  hall  and  chamber.  Perhaps 
a  virgin,  the  purest  of  mortal  race,  has  been  left  be 
hind  to  perform  a  requiem  for  the  whole  kindred  of 
humanity.  Not  so.  These  are  the  tones  of  an  .ZEo- 
lian  harp,  through  which  Nature  pours  the  harmony 
that  lies  concealed  in  her  every  breath,  whether  of 
summer  breeze  or  tempest.  Adam  and  Eve  are  lost 
in  rapture  unmingled  with  surprise.  The  passing 
wind,  that  stirred  the  harp  strings,  has  been  hushed, 
before  they  can  think  of  examining  the  splendid  fur 
niture,  the  gorgeous  carpets,  and  the  architecture  of 
the  rooms.  These  things  amuse  their  unpractised 
eyes,  but  appeal  to  nothing  within  their  hearts.  Even 
the  pictures  upon  the  walls  scarcely  excite  a  deeper 
interest ;  for  there  is  something  radically  artificial 
and  deceptive  in  painting  with  which  minds  in  the 
primal  simplicity  cannot  sympathize.  The  unbidden 
guests  examine  a  row  of  family  portraits,  but  are  too 
dull  to  recognize  them  as  men  and  women,  beneath 
the  disguise  of  a  preposterous  garb,  and  with  features 
and  expression  debased,  because  inherited  through  ages 
Df  moral  and  physical  decay. 

Chance,  however,  presents  them  with  pictures  of  hu- 

VOL.  II.  19 


290          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

man  beauty,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  Nature.  As  they 
enter  a  magnificent  apartment  they  are  astonished,  but 
"lot  affrighted,  to  perceive  two  figures  advancing  to 
meet  them.  Is  it  not  awful  to  imagine  that  any  life 
save  their  own,  should  remain  in  the  wide  world  ? 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  exclaims  Adam.  "  My  beautiful 
Eve,  are  you  in  two  places  at  once  ?  " 

"  And  you,  Adam  !  "  answers  Eve,  doubtful,  yet  de 
lighted.  "  Surely  that  noble  and  lovely  form  is  yours. 
Yet  here  you  are  by  my  side.  I  am  content  with  one. 
—  methinks  there  should  not  be  two." 

This  miracle  is  wrought  by  a  tall  looking-glass,  the 
mystery  of  which  they  soon  fathom,  because  Nature 
creates  a  mirror  for  the  human  face  in  every  pool  of 
water,  and  for  her  own  great  features  in  waveless 
lakes.  Pleased  and  satisfied  with  gazing  at  them 
selves,  they  now  discover  the  marble  statue  of  a  child 
in  a  corner  of  the  room  so  exquisitely  idealized  that  it 
is  almost  worthy  to  be  the  prophetic  likeness  of  their 
first  born.  Sculpture,  in  its  highest  excellence,  is 
more  genuine  than  painting,  and  might  seem  to  be 
evolved  from  a  natural  germ,  by  the  same  law  as  a 
leaf  or  flower.  The  statue  of  the  child  impresses  the 
solitary  pair  as  if  it  were  a  companion;  it  likewise 
hints  at  secrets  both  of  the  past  and  future. 

"  My  husband !  "  whispers  Eve. 

"  What  would  you  say,  dearest  Eve  ? "  inquires 
Adam. 

"  I  wonder  if  we  are  alone  in  the  world,"  she  con 
tinues,  with  a  sense  of  something  like  fear  at  the 
thought  of  other  inhabitants.  "  This  lovely  little 
torm !  Did  it  ever  breathe  ?  Or  is  it  only  the  shadow 
of  something  real,  like  our  pictures  in  the  mirror  ?  " 

"  It  is  strange !  *'  replies  Adam,  pressing  his  hand  to 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  291 

his  brow.  "  There  are  mysteries  all  around  us.  An 
idea  flits  continually  before  me  —  would  that  I  could 
seize  it !  Eve,  Eve,  are  we  treading  in  the  footsteps 
of  beings  that  bore  a  likeness  to  ourselves  ?  If  so, 
whither  are  they  gone  ?  —  and  why  is  their  world  so 
unfit  for  our  dwelling  place  ?  " 

"  Our  great  Father  only  knows,"  answers  Eve. 
"  But  something  tells  me  that  we  shall  not  always  be 
alone.  And  how  sweet  if  other  beings  were  to  visit 
us  in  the  shape  of  this  fair  image  !  " 

Then  they  wander  through  the  house,  and  every 
where  find  tokens  of  human  life,  which  now,  with  the 
idea  recently  suggested,  excite  a  deeper  curiosity  in 
their  bosoms.  Woman  has  here  left  traces  of  her 
delicacy  and  refinement,  and  of  her  gentle  labors. 
Eve  ransacks  a  work-basket  and  instinctively  thrusts 
the  rosy  tip  of  her  finger  into  a  thimble.  She  takes 
up  a  piece  of  embroidery,  glowing  with  mimic  flowers, 
in  one  of  which  a  fair  damsel  of  the  departed  race  has 
left  her  needle.  Pity  that  the  Day  of  Doom  should 
have  anticipated  the  completion  of  such  a  useful  task  ! 
Eve  feels  almost  conscious  of  the  skill  to  finish  it.  A 
pianoforte  has  been  left  open.  She  flings  her  hand 
carelessly  over  the  keys,  and  strikes  out  a  sudden  mel 
ody,  no  less  natural  than  the  strains  of  the  ^Eolian 
harp,  but  joyous  with  the  dance  of  her  yet  unbur 
dened  life.  Passing  through  a  dark  entry  they  find 
a  broom  behind  the  door ;  and  Eve,  who  comprises 
the  whole  nature  of  womanhood,  has  a  dim  idea  that 
it  is  an  instrument  proper  for  her  hand.  In  another 
apartment  they  behold  a  canopied  bed,  and  all  the  ap 
pliances  of  luxurious  repose.  A  heap  of  forest  leaves 
would  be  more  to  the  purpose.  They  enter  the  nur- 
tery,  and  are  perplexed  with  the  sight  of  little  gowns 


292          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

and  caps,  tiny  shoes,  and  a  cradle,  amid  the  drapery 
of  which  is  still  to  be  seen  the  impress  of  a  baby's 
form.  Adam  slightly  notices  these  trifles ;  but  Eve 
becomes  involved  in  a  fit  of  mute  reflection  from 
which  it  is  hardly  possible  to  rouse  her. 

By  a  most  unlucky  arrangement  there  was  to  have 
been  a  grand  dinner  party  in  this  mansion  on  the 
very  day  when  the  whole  human  family,  including  the 
invited  guests,  were  summoned  to  the  unknown  re 
gions  of  illimitable  space.  At  the  moment  of  fate, 
the  table  was  actually  spread,  and  the  company  on 
the  point  of  sitting  down.  Adam  and  Eve  come  un 
bidden  to  the  banquet;  it  has  now  been  some  time 
cold,  but  otherwise  furnishes  them  with  highly  favor 
able  specimens  of  the  gastronomy  of  their  predeces 
sors.  But  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  the  perplexity  of 
the  unperverted  couple,  in  endeavoring  to  find  proper 
food  for  their  first  meal,  at  a  table  where  the  culti 
vated  appetites  of  a  fashionable  party  were  to  have 
been  gratified.  Will  Nature  teach  them  the  mystery 
of  a  plate  of  turtle  soup  ?  Will  she  embolden  them 
to  attack  a  haunch  of  venison?  Will  she  initiate 
them  into  the  merits  of  a  Parisian  pasty,  imported  by 
the  last  steamer  that  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic  ?  Will 
she  not,  rather,  bid  them  turn  with  disgust  from  fish, 
fowl,  and  flesh,  which,  to  their  pure  nostrils,  steam 
with  a  loathsome  odor  of  death  and  corruption?  — 
Food  ?  The  bill  of  fare  contains  nothing  which  they 
recognize  as  such. 

Fortunately,  however,  the  dessert  is  ready  upon  a 
neighboring  table.  Adam,  whose  appetite  and  ani 
mal  instincts  are  quicker  than  those  of  Eve,  discovers 
this  fitting  banquet. 

"  Here,  dearest  Eve,"  he  exclaims,  "  here  is  food." 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  293 

"  Well,"  answered  she,  with  the  germ  of  a  house 
wife  stirring  within  her,  "  we  have  been  so  busy  to 
day,  that  a  picked-up  dinner  must  serve." 

So  Eve  comes  to  the  table  and  receives  a  red- 
cheeked  apple  from  her  husband's  hand  in  requital  of 
her  predecessor's  fatal  gift  to  our  common  grand 
father.  She  eats  it  without  sin,  and,  let  us  hope, 
with  no  disastrous  consequences  to  her  future  prog 
eny.  They  make  a  plentiful,  yet  temperate,  meal  of 
fruit,  which,  though  not  gathered  in  paradise,  is  legit 
imately  derived  from  the  seeds  that  were  planted  there. 
Their  primal  appetite  is  satisfied. 

"  What  shall  we  drink,  Eve?  "  inquires  Adam. 

Eve  peeps  among  some  bottles  and  decanters,  which, 
as  they  contain  fluids,  she  naturally  conceives  must  be 
proper  to  quench  thirst.  But  never  before  did  claret, 
hock,  and  madeira,  of  rich  and  rare  perfume,  excite 
such  disgust  as  now. 

"Pah!"  she  exclaims,  after  smelling  at  various 
wines.  "  What  stuff  is  here  ?  The  beings  who  have 
gone  before  us  could  not  have  possessed  the  same  na 
ture  that  we  do :  for  neither  their  hunger  nor  thirst 
were  like  our  own." 

"  Pray  hand  me  yonder  bottle,"  says  Adam.  "  If  it 
be  drinkable  by  any  manner  of  mortal,  I  must  moisten 
my  throat  with  it." 

After  some  remonstrances  she  takes  up  a  champagne 
bottle,  but  is  frightened  by  the  sudden  explosion  of  the 
cork,  and  drops  it  upon  the  floor.  There  the  untasted 
liquor  effervesces.  Had  they  quaffed  it  they  would 
have  experienced  that  brief  delirium  whereby,  whether 
excited  by  moral  or  physical  causes,  man  sought  to 
recompense  himself  for  the  calm,  lifelong  joys  which 
he  had  lost  by  his  revolt  from  Nature.  At  length  in 


294  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

a  refrigerator,  Eve  finds  a  glass  pitcher  of  water,  pure, 
cold,  and  bright  as  ever  gushed  from  a  fountain  among 
the  hills.  Both  drink  ;  and  such  refreshment  does  it 
bestow,  that  they  question  one  another  if  this  precious 
liquid  be  not  identical  with  the  stream  of  life  within 
them. 

"  And  now,"  observes  Adam,  "  we  must  again  try 
to  discover  what  sort  of  a  world  this  is,  and  why  we 
have  been  sent  hither." 

"  Why  ?  to  love  one  another,"  cries  Eve.  "  Is  not 
that  employment  enough  ?  " 

"Truly  is  it,"  answers  Adam,  kissing  her;  "but 
still — I  know  not — something  tells  us  there  is  labor 
to  be  done.  Perhaps  our  allotted  task  is  no  other 
than  to  climb  into  the  sky,  which  is  so  much  more 
beautiful  than  earth." 

"  Then  would  we  were  there  now,"  murmurs  Eve, 
"  that  no  task  or  duty  might  come  between  us  !  " 

They  leave  the  hospitable  mansion,  and  we  next  see 
them  passing  down  State  Street.  The  clock  on  the  old 
State  House  points  to  high  noon,  when  the  Exchange 
should  be  in  its  glory  and  present  the  liveliest  emblem 
of  what  was  the  sole  business  of  life,  as  regarded  a 
multitude  of  the  foregone  worldlings.  It  is  over  now. 
The  Sabbath  of  eternity  has  shed  its  stillness  along  the 
street.  Not  even  a  newsboy  assails  the  two  solitary 
passers-by  with  an  extra  penny  paper  from  the  office 
of  the  Times  or  Mail,  containing  a  full  account  of  yes 
terday's  terrible  catastrophe.  Of  all  the  dull  times 
that  merchants  and  speculators  have  known,  this  is 
the  very  worst;  for,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned, 
creation  itself  has  taken  the  benefit  of  the  bankrupt 
act.  After  all,  it  is  a  pity.  Those  mighty  capitalists 
had  just  attained  the  wished-for  wealth  !  Those 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  295 

shrewd  men  of  traffic  who  had  devoted  so  many  years 
to  the  most  intricate  and  artificial  of  sciences,  and  had 
barely  mastered  it  when  the  universal  bankruptcy  was 
announced  by  peal  of  trumpet !  Can  they  have  been 
so  incautious  as  to  provide  no  currency  of  the  country 
whither  they  have  gone,  nor  any  bills  of  exchange,  or 
letters  of  credit  from  the  needy  on  earth  to  the  cash 
keepers  of  heaven  ? 

Adam  and  Eve  enter  a  bank.  Start  not,  ye  whose 
funds  are  treasured  there !  You  will  never  need  them 
now.  Call  not  for  the  police.  The  stones  of  the  street 
and  the  coin  of  the  vaults  are  of  equal  value  to  this  sim 
ple  pair.  Strange  sight !  They  take  up  the  bright  gold 
in  handfuls  and  throw  it  sportively  into  the  air  for  the 
sake  of  seeing  the  glittering  worthlessness  descend 
again  in  a  shower.  They  know  not  that  each  of  those 
small  yellow  circles  was  once  a  magic  spell,  potent  to 
sway  men's  hearts  and  mystify  their  moral  sense. 
Here  let  them  pause  in  the  investigation  of  the  past. 
They  have  discovered  the  mainspring,  the  life,  the  very 
essence  of  the  system  that  had  wrought  itself  into  the 
vitals  of  mankind,  and  choked  their  original  nature  in 
its  deadly  gripe.  Yet  how  powerless  over  these  young 
inheritors  of  earth's  hoarded  wealth  !  And  here,  too, 
are  huge  packages  of  bank-notes,  those  talismanic  slips 
of  paper  which  once  had  the  efficacy  to  build  up  en,-,., 
chanted  palaces  like  exhalations,  and  work  all  kinds 
6T  perilous  wonders,  yet  were  themselves  but  the  ghosts 
of  money,  the  shadows  of  a  shade.  How  like  is  this 
vault  to  a  magician's  cave  when  the  all-powerful  wand 
is  broken,  and  the  visionary  splendor  vanished,  and  the 
floor  strown  with  fragments  of  shattered  spells,  and 
lifeless  shapes,  orce  animated  by  demons ! 

"  Everywhere,  my  dear  Eve,"  observes  Adam,  "  we 


296          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

find  heaps  of  rubbish  of  one  kind  or  another.  Some* 
body,  I  am  convinced,  has  taken  pains  to  collect  them, 
but  for  what  purpose  ?  Perhaps,  hereafter,  we  shall  be 
moved  to  do  the  like.  Can  that  be  our  business  in  the 
world?" 

"  Oh  no,  no,  Adam !  "  answers  Eve.  "  It  would  be 
better  to  sit  down  quietly  and  look  upward  to  the 
sky." 

They  leave  the  bank,  and  in  good  time;  for  had 
they  tarried  later  they  would  probably  have  encoun 
tered  some  gouty  old  goblin  of  a  capitalist,  whose  soul 
could  not  long  be  anywhere  save  in  the  vault  with  his 
treasure. 

Next  they  drop  into  a  jeweller's  shop.  They  are 
pleased  with  the  glow  of  gems  ;  and  Adam  twines  a 
string  of  beautiful  pearls  around  the  head  of  Eve,  and 
fastens  his  own  mantle  with  a  magnificent  diamond 
brooch.  Eve  thanks  him,  and  views  herself  with  de 
light  in  the  nearest  looking-glass.  Shortly  afterward, 
observing  a  bouquet  of  roses  and  other  brilliant  flow 
ers  in  a  vase  of  water,  she  flings  away  the  inestimable 
pearls,  and  adorns  herself  with  these  lovelier  gems  of 
nature.  They  charm  her  with  sentiment  as  well  as 
beauty. 

"Surely  they  are  living  beings,"  she  remarks  to 
Adam. 

"  I  think  so,"  replies  Adam,  "  and  they  seem  to  be 
as  little  at  home  in  the  world  as  ourselves." 

We  must  not  attempt  to  follow  every  footstep  of 
these  investigators  whom  their  Creator  has  commis 
sioned  to  pass  unconscious  judgment  upon  the  works 
and  ways  of  the  vanished  race.  By  this  time,  being 
endowed  with  quick  and  accurate  perceptions,  they  be 
gin  to  understand  the  purpose  of  the  many,  things 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  297 

around  them.  They  conjecture,  for  instance,  that  the 
edifices  of  the  city  were  erected,  not  by  the  immediate 
hand  that  made  the  world,  but  by  beings  somewhat 
similar  to  themselves,  for  shelter  and  convenience. 
But  how  will  they  explain  the  magnificence  of  one 
habitation  as  compared  with  the  squalid  misery  of 
another  ?  Through  what  medium  can  the  idea  of  ser 
vitude  enter  their  minds  ?  When  will  they  compre 
hend  the  great  and  miserable  fact  —  the  evidences  of 
which  appeal  to  their  senses  everywhere  —  that  one 
portion  of  earth's  lost  inhabitants  was  rolling  in  lux 
ury  while  the  multitude  was  toiling  for  scanty  food  ? 
A  wretched  change,  indeed,  must  be  wrought  in  their 
own  hearts  ere  they  can  conceive  the  primal  decree 
of^  Love  to  have  been  so  completely  abrogated,  that 
a  brother  should  ever  wrant  what  his  brother  had. 
When  their  intelligence  shall  have  reached  so  far, 
Earth's  new  progeny  will  have  little  reason  to  exult 
over  her  old  rejected  one. 

Their  wanderings  have  now  brought  them  into  the 
suburbs  of  the  city.  They  stand  on  a  grassy  brow  of 
a  hill  at  the  foot  of  a  granite  obelisk  which  points  its 
great  finger  upwards,  as  if  the  human  family  had 
agreed,  by  a  visible  symbol  of  age-long  endurance,  to 
offer  some  high  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving  or  supplica 
tion.  The  solemn  height  of  the  monument,  its  deep 
simplicity,  and  the  absence  of  any  vulgar  and  practi 
cal  use,  all  strengthen  its  effect  upon  Adam  and  Eve, 
and  leave  them  to  interpret  it  by  a  purer  sentiment 
than  the  builders  thought  of  expressing. 

"  Eve,  it  is  a  visible  prayer,"  observed  Adam. 

"  And  we  will  pray  too,"  she  replies. 

Let  us  pardon  these  poor  children  of  neither  father 
nor  mother  for  so  absurdly  mistaking  the  purport  of 


298          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

the  memorial  which  man  founded  and  woman  finished 
on  far-famed  Bunker  Hill.  The  idea  of  war  is  not  na 
tive  to  their  souls.  Nor  have  they  sympathies  for  the 
brave  defenders  of  liberty,  since  oppression  is  one  of 
their  unconjectured  mysteries.  Could  they  guess  that 
the  green  sward  on  which  they  stand  so  peacefully  was 
once  strewn  with  human  corpses  and  purple  with  their 
blood,  it  would  equally  amaze  them  that  one  genera 
tion  of  men  should  perpetrate  such  carnage,  and  that 
a  subsequent  generation  should  triumphantly  com 
memorate  it. 

With  a  sense  of  delight  they  now  stroll  across  green 
fields  and  along  the  margin  of  a  quiet  river.  Not  to 
track  them  too  closely,  we  next  find  the  wanderers  en 
tering  a  Gothic  edifice  of  gray  stone  where  the  by-gone 
world  has  left  whatever  it  deemed  worthy  of  record,  in 
the  rich  library  of  Harvard  University. 

No  student  ever  yet  enjoyed  such  solitude  and  si 
lence  as  now  broods  within  its  deep  alcoves.  Little 
do  the  present  visitors  understand  what  opportunities 
are  thrown  away  upon  them.  Yet  Adam  looks  anx 
iously  at  the  long  rows  of  volumes,  those  storied 
heights  of  human  lore,  ascending  one  above  another 
from  floor  to  ceiling.  He  takes  up  a  bulky  folio.  It 
opens  in  his  hands  as  if  spontaneously  to  impart  the 
spirit  of  its  author  to  the  yet  unworn  and  untainted 
intellect  of  the  fresh-created  mortal.  He  stands  por 
ing  over  the  regular  columns  of  mystic  characters, 
seemingly  in  studious  mood ;  for  the  unintelligible 
thought  upon  the  page  has  a  mysterious  relation  to 
his  mind,  and  makes  itself  felt  as  if  it  were  a  bur 
den  flung  upon  him.  He  is  even  painfully  per 
plexed,  and  grasps  vainly  at  he  knows  not  what. 
O  Adam,  it  is  too  soon,  too  soon  by  at  least  five 


THE   NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  299 

thousand  years,  to  put  on  spectacles  and  bury  your 
self  in  the  alcoves  of  a  library ! 

"  What  can  this  be  ?  "  he  murmurs  at  last.  "  Eve, 
methinks  nothing  is  so  desirable  as  to  find  out  the 
mystery  of  this  big  and  heavy  object  with  its  thousand 
thin  divisions.  See  !  it  stares  me  in  the  face  as  if  it 
were  about  to  speak !  " 

Eve,  by  a  feminine  instinct,  is  dipping  into  a  vol 
ume  of  fashionable  poetry,  the  production  certainly  of 
the  most  fortunate  of  earthly  bards,  since  his  lay  con 
tinues  in  vogue  when  all  the  great  masters  of  the  lyre 
have  passed  into  oblivion.  But  let  not  his  ghost  be 
too  exultant !  The  world's  one  lady  tosses  the  book 
upon  the  floor  and  laughs  merrily  at  her  husband's 
abstracted  mien. 

"  My  dear  Adam,"  cries  she,  "  you  look  pensive  and 
dismal.  Do  fling  down  that  stupid  thing ;  for  even  if 
it  should  speak  it  would  not  be  worth  attending  to. 
Let  us  talk  with  one  another,  and  with  the  sky,  and 
the  green  earth,  and  its  trees  and  flowers.  They  will 
teach  us  better  knowledge  than  we  can  find  here." 

"  Well,  Eve,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  replies  Adam, 
with  a  sort  of  sigh.  "  Still  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
the  interpretation  of  the  riddles  amid  which  we  have 
been  wandering  all  day  long  might  here  be  discov 
ered." 

"  It  may  be  better  not  to  seek  the  interpretation," 
persists  Eve.  "For  my  part,  the  air  of  this  place 
does  not  suit  me.  If  you  love  me,  come  away !  " 

She  prevails,  and  rescues  him  from  the  mysterious 
perils  of  the  library.  Happy  influence  of  woman  ! 
Had  he  lingered  there  long  enough  to  obtain  a  clue 
to  its  treasures  —  as  was  not  impossible,  his  intellect 
being  of  human  structure,  indeed,  but  with  an  untrans- 


300          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

mitted  vigor  and  acuteness, — had  he  then  and  there 
become  a  student,  the  annalist  of  our  poor  world  would 
soon  have  recorded  the  downfall  of  a  second  Adam. 
The  fatal  apple  of  another  Tree  of  Knowledge  would 
have  been  eaten.  All  the  perversions,  and  sophistries, 
and  false  wisdom  so  aptly  mimicking  the  true  —  all 
the  narrow  truth,  so  partial  that  it  becomes  more  de 
ceptive  than  falsehood  —  all  the  wrong  principles  and 
worse  practice,  the  pernicious  examples  and  mistaken 
rules  of  life  —  all  the  specious  theories  which  turn 
earth  into  cloudland  and  men  into  shadows  —  all  the 
sad  experience  which  it  took  mankind  so  many  ages 
to  accumulate,  and  from  which  they  never  drew  a 
moral  for  their  future  guidance,  — the  whole  heap  of 
this  disastrous  lore  would  have  tumbled  at  once  upon 
Adam's  head.  There  would  have  been  nothing  left 
for  him  but  to  take  up  the  already  abortive  experi 
ment  of  life  where  we  had  dropped  it,  and  toil  on 
ward  with  it  a  little  further. 

But,  blessed  in  his  ignorance,  he  may  still  enjoy  a 
new  world  in  our  wornout  one.  Should  he  fall  short 
of  good,  even  as  far  as  we  did,  he  has  at  least  the  free 
dom  —  no  worthless  one  —  to  make  errors  for  himself. 
And  his  literature,  when  the  progress  of  centuries  shall 
create  it,  will  be  no  interminably  repeated  echo  of  our 
own  poetry  and  reproduction  of  the  images  that  were 
moulded  by  our  great  fathers  of  song  and  fiction,  but 
a  melody  never  yet  heard  on  earth,  and  intellectual 
forms  unbreathed  upon  by  our  conceptions.  There 
fore  let  the  dust  of  ages  gather  upon  the  volumes  of 
the  library,  and  in  due  season  the  roof  of  the  edifice 
crumble  down  upon  the  whole.  When  the  second 
Adam's  descendants  shall  have  collected  as  much 
rubbish  of  their  own,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  dig 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE.  801 

Into  our  ruins  and  compare  the  literary  advancement 
of  two  independent  races. 

But  we  are  looking  forward  too  far.  It  seems  to  be 
the  vice  of  those  who  have  a  long  past  behind  them. 
We  will  return  to  the  new  Adam  and  Eve,  who,  hav 
ing  no  reminiscences  save  dim  and  fleeting  visions  of 
a  preexistence,  are  content  to  live  and  be  happy  in 
the  present. 

The  day  is  near  its  close  when  these  pilgrims,  who 
derive  their  being  from  no  dead  progenitors,  reach  the 
cemetery  of  Mount  Auburn.  With  light  hearts  —  for 
earth  and  sky  now  gladden  each  other  with  beauty  — • 
they  tread  along  the  winding  paths,  among  marble 
pillars,  mimic  temples,  urns,  obelisks,  and  sarcophagi, 
sometimes  pausing  to  contemplate  these  fantasies  of 
human  growth,  and  sometimes  to  admire  the  flowers 
wherewith  Nature  converts  decay  to  loveliness.  Can 
death,  in  the  midst  of  his  old  triumphs,  make  them  sen 
sible  that  they  have  taken  up  the  heavy  burden  of  mor 
tality  which  a  whole  species  had  thrown  down  ?  Dust 
kindred  to  their  own  has  never  lain  in  the  grave.  Will 
they  then  recognize,  and  so  soon,  that  Time  and  the  ele 
ments  have  an  indefeasible  claim  upon  their  bodies? 
Not  improbably  they  may.  There  must  have  been 
shadows  enough,  even  amid  the  primal  sunshine  of 
their  existence,  to  suggest  the  thought  of  the  soul's  in 
congruity  with  its  circumstances.  They  have  already 
learned  that  something  is  to  be  thrown  aside.  The 
idea  of  Death  is  in  them,  or  not  far  off.  But,  were 
they  to  choose  a  symbol  for  him,  it  would  be  the  but 
terfly  soaring  upward,  or  the  bright  angel  beckoning 
them  aloft,  or  the  child  asleep,  with  soft  dreams  visi 
ble  through  her  transparent  purity. 

Such  a  Child,  in  whitest  marble,  they  have  found 
among  the  monuments  of  Mount  Auburn. 


302          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Sweetest  Eve,"  observes  Adam,  while  hand  in 
hand  they  contemplate  this  beautiful  object,  "  yonder 
sun  has  left  us,  and  the  whole  world  is  fading  from 
our  sight.  Let  us  sleep  as  this  lovely  little  figure 
is  sleeping.  Our  Father  only  knows  whether  what 
outward  things  we  have  possessed  to-day  are  to  be 
snatched  from  us  forever.  But  should  our  earthly 
life  be  leaving  us  with  the  departing  light,  we  need 
not  doubt  that  another  morn  will  find  us  somewhere 
beneath  the  smile  of  God.  I  feel  that  he  has  im 
parted  the  boon  of  existence  never  to  be  resumed." 

"  And  no  matter  where  we  exist,"  replies  Eve,  "  for 
we  shall  always  be  together." 


EGOTISM ; l  OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 

[PROM   THE   UNPUBLISHED    "ALLEGORIES    OP    THE    HEART."] 

"  HEKE  he  comes !  "  shouted  the  boys  along  the 
street.  "  Here  comes  the  man  with  a  snake  in  his 
bosom !  " 

This  outcry,  saluting  Herkimer's  ears  as  he  was 
about  to  enter  the  iron  gate  of  the  Elliston  mansion, 
made  him  pause.  It  was  not  without  a  shudder  that 
he  found  himself  on  the  point  of  meeting  his  former 
acquaintance,  whom  he  had  known  in  the  glory  of 
youth,  and  whom  now  after  an  interval  of  five  years, 
he  was  to  find  the  victim  either  of  a  diseased  fancy  or 
a  horrible  physical  misfortune. 

"  A  snake  in  his  bosom!  "  repeated  the  young  sculp 
tor  to  himself.  "  It  must  be  he.  No  second  man  on 
earth  has  such  a  bosom  friend.  And  now,  my  poor 
Rosina,  Heaven  grant  me  wisdom  to  discharge  my  er 
rand  aright !  Woman's  faith  must  be  strong  indeed 
since  thine  has  not  yet  failed." 

Thus  musing,  he  took  his  stand  at  the  entrance  of 
the  gate  and  waited  until  ths  personage  so  singularly 
announced  should  make  his  appearance.  After  an 
instant  or  two  he  beheld  the  figure  of  a  lean  man,  of 
unwholesome  look,  with  glittering  eyes  and  long  black 
iiair,  who  seemed  to  imitate  the  motion  of  a  snake ;  for, 
instead  of  walking  straight  forward  with  open  front, 

1  The  physical  fact,  to  which  it  is  here  attempted  to  give  a  morai 
Hgnification,  has  been  known  to  occur  in  more  than  one  instance. 


304          MOSSES   FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

he  undulated  along  the  pavement  in  a  curved  line.  It 
may  be  too  fanciful  to  say  that  something,  either  in  his 
moral  or  material  aspect,  suggested  the  idea  that  a 
miracle  had  been  wrought  by  transforming  a  serpent 
into  a  man,  but  so  imperfectly  that  the  snaky  nature 
was  yet  hidden,  and  scarcely  hidden,  under  the  mere 
outward  guise  of  humanity.  Herkimer  remarked  that 
his  complexion  had  a  greenish  tinge  over  its  sickly 
white,  reminding  him  of  a  species  of  marble  out  of 
which  he  had  once  wrought  a  head  of  Envy,  with 
her  snaky  locks. 

The  wretched  being  approached  the  gate,  but,  in 
stead  of  entering,  stopped  short  and  fixed  the  glitter 
of  his  eye  full  upon  the  compassionate  yet  steady  coun 
tenance  of  the  sculptor. 

"  It  gnaws  me  !     It  gnaws  me  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

And  then  there  was  an  audible  hiss,  but  whether  it 
came  from  the  apparent  lunatic's  own  lips,  or  was  the 
real  hiss  of  a  serpent,  might  admit  of  a  discussion. 
At  all  events,  it  made  Herkimer  shudder  to  his  heart's 
core. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  George  Herkimer  ?  "  asked  the 
snake-possessed. 

Herkimer  did  know  him ;  but  it  demanded  all  the 
intimate  and  practical  acquaintance  with  the  human 
face,  acquired  by  modelling  actual  likenesses  in  clay, 
to  recognize  the  features  of  Roderick  Elliston  in  the 
visage  that  now  met  the  sculptor's  gaze.  Yet  it  was 
he.  It  added  nothing  to  the  wonder  to  reflect  that  the 
once  brilliant  young  man  had  undergone  this  odious 
and  fearful  change  during  the  no  more  than  five 
brief  years  of  Herkimer' s  abode  at  Florence.  The 
possibility  of  such  a  transformation  being  granted,  it 
was  as  easy  to  conceive  it  effected  in  a  moment  as  in 


EGOTISM;    OR,    THE  BOSOM  SERPENT.     305 

an  age.  Inexpressibly  shocked  and  startled,  it  was 
still  the  keenest  pang  when  Herkimer  remembered 
that  the  fate  or  his  cousin  Rosina,  the  ideal  of  gen 
tle  womanhood,  was  indissolubly  interwoven  with  that 
of  a  being  whom  Providence  seemed  to  have  unhu- 
manized. 

"  Elliston  !  Roderick  !  "  cried  he,  "  I  had  heard  of 
this ;  but  my  conception  came  far  short  of  the  truth. 
What  has  befallen  you?  Why  do  I  find  you  thus  ?  " 

"  Oh,  't  is  a  mere  nothing  !  A  snake !  A  snake  ! 
The  commonest  thing  in  the  world.  A  snake  in  the 
bosom  —  that  's  all,"  answered  Roderick  Elliston. 
"  But  how  is  your  own  breast  ?  "  continued  he,  look 
ing  the  sculptor  in  the  eye  with  the  most  acute  and 
penetrating  glance  that  it  had  ever  been  his  fortune 
to  encounter.  "  All  pure  and  wholesome  ?  No  rep 
tile  there  ?  By  my  faith  and  conscience,  and  by  the 
devil  within  me,  here  is  a  wonder !  A  man  without 
a  serpent  in  his  bosom  !  " 

"  Be  calm,  Elliston,"  whispered  George  Herkimer, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  snake-pos 
sessed.  "  I  have  crossed  the  ocean  to  meet  you.  Lis 
ten  !  Let  us  be  private.  I  bring  a  message  from 
Rosina  — from  your  wife  !  " 

"  It  gnaws  me !  It  gnaws  me ! "  muttered  Rod 
erick. 

With  this  exclamation,  the  most  frequent  in  his 
mouth,  the  unfortunate  man  clutched  both  hands 
upon  his  breast  as  if  an  intolerable  sting  or  torture 
impelled  him  to  rend  it  open  and  let  out  the  living 
mischief,  even  should  it  be  intertwined  with  his  own 
life.  He  then  freed  himself  from  Herkimer 's  grasp 
by  a  subtle  motion,  and,  gliding  through  the  gate,  took 
refuge  in  his  antiquated  family  residence.  The  sculp* 


806          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

tor  did  not  pursue  him.  He  saw  that  no  available  in 
tercourse  could  be  expected  at  such  a  moment,  and  was 
desirous,  before  another  meeting,  to  inquire  closely 
into  the  nature  of  Roderick's  disease  and  the  circum 
stances  that  had  reduced  him  to  so  lamentable  a  con 
dition.  He  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  necessary  infor 
mation  from  an  eminent  medical  gentleman. 

Shortly  after  Elliston's  separation  from  his  wife  — 
now  nearly  four  years  ago  —  his  associates  had  ob 
served  a  singular  gloom  spreading  over  his  daily  life, 
like  those  chill,  gray  mists  that  sometimes  steal  away 
the  sunshine  from  a  summer's  morning.  The  symp 
toms  caused  them  endless  perplexity.  They  knew  not 
whether  ill  health  were  robbing  his  spirits  of  elasticity, 
or  whether  a  canker  of  the  mind  was  gradually  eating, 
as  such  cankers  do,  from  his  moral  system  into  the 
physical  frame,  which  is  but  the  shadow  of  the  former. 
They  looked  for  the  root  of  this  trouble  in  his  shat 
tered  schemes  of  domestic  bliss,  —  wilfully  shattered 
by  himself,  —  but  could  not  be  satisfied  of  its  exist 
ence  there.  Some  thought  that  their  once  brilliant 
friend  was  in  an  incipient  stage  of  insanity,  of  which 
his  passionate  impulses  had  perhaps  been  the  forerun 
ners  ;  others  prognosticated  a  general  blight  and  grad 
ual  decline.  From  Roderick's  own  lips  they  could 
learn  nothing.  More  than  once,  it  is  true,  he  had 
been  heard  to  say,  clutching  his  hands  convulsively 
upon  his  breast,  —  "  It  gnaws  me !  It  gnaws  me  !  "  — 
but,  by  different  auditors,  a  great  diversity  of  explana 
tion  was  assigned  to  this  ominous  expression.  What 
could  it  be  that  gnawed  the  breast  of  Roderick  Ellis- 
ton?  Was  it  sorrow?  Was  it  merely  the  tooth  of 
physical  disease?  Or,  in  his  reckless  course,  often 
verging  upon  profligacy,  if  not  plunging  into  its 


EGOTISM;   OR,    THE  BOSOM  SERPENT.     307 

depths,  had  he  been  guilty  of  some  deed  which  made 
his  bosom  a  prey  to  the  deadlier  fangs  of  remorse? 
There  was  plausible  ground  for  each  of  these  con 
jectures  ;  but  it  must  not  be  concealed  that  more 
than  one  elderly  gentleman,  the  victim  of  good  cheer 
and  slothful  habits,  magisterially  pronounced  the  se 
cret  of  the  whole  matter  to  be  Dyspepsia ! 

Meanwhile,  Roderick  seemed  aware  how  generally 
he  had  become  the  subject  of  curiosity  and  conjee* 
ture,  and,  with  a  morbid  repugnance  to  such  notice, 
or  to  any  notice  whatsoever,  estranged  himself  from 
all  companionship.  Not  merely  the  eye  of  man  was 
a  horror  to  him  ;  not  merely  the  light  of  a  friend's 
countenance ;  but  even  the  blessed  sunshine,  likewise^ 
which  in  its  universal  beneficence  typifies  the  radi 
ance  of  the  Creator's  face,  expressing  his  love  for  all 
the  creatures  of  his  hand.  The  dusky  twilight  was 
now  too  transparent  for  Roderick  Elliston  ;  the  black 
est  midnight  was  his  chosen  hour  to  steal  abroad ;  and 
if  ever  he  were  seen,  it  was  when  the  watchman's  Ian 
tern  gleamed  upon  his  figure,  gliding  along  the  street, 
with  his  hands  clutched  upon  his  bosom,  still  mutter 
ing,  "  It  gnaws  me  !  It  gnaws  me !  "  What  could 
it  be  that  gnawed  him  ? 

After  a  time,  it  became  known  that  Elliston  was  in 
the  habit  of  resorting  to  all  the  noted  quacks  that  in 
fested  the  city,  or  whom  money  would  tempt  to  jour 
ney  thither  from  a  distance.  By  one  of  these  persons, 
in  the  exultation  of  a  supposed  cure,  it  was  proclaimed 
far  and  wide,  by  dint  of  handbills  and  little  pamphlets 
on  dingy  paper,  that  a  distinguished  gentleman,  Rod 
erick  Elliston,  Esq.,  had  been  relieved  of  a  SNAKE  in 
his  stomach !  So  here  was  the  monstrous  secret, 
ejected  from  its  lurking  place  into  public  view,  in 


808          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

all  its  horrible  deformity.  The  mystery  was  out; 
but  not  so  the  bosom  serpent.  He,  if  it  were  any 
thing  but  a  delusion,  still  lay  coiled  in  his  living  den. 
The  empiric's  cure  had  been  a  sham,  the  effect,  it  was 
supposed,  of  some  stupefying  drug  which  more  nearly 
caused  the  death  of  the  patient  than  of  the  odious  rep 
tile  that  possessed  him.  When  Roderick  Elliston  re 
gained  entire  sensibility,  it  was  to  find  his  misfortune 
the  town  talk  —  the  more  than  nine  days'  wonder  and 
horror  —  while,  at  his  bosom,  he  felt  the  sickening  mo 
tion  of  a  thing  alive,  and  the  gnawing  of  that  restless 
fang  which  seemed  to  gratify  at  once  a  physical  appe 
tite  and  a  fiendish  spite. 

He  summoned  the  old  black  servant,  who  had  been 
bred  up  in  his  father's  house,  and  was  a  middle-aged 
man  while  Roderick  lay  in  his  cradle. 

"  Scipio !  "  he  began  ;  and  then  paused,  with  his 
arms  folded  over  his  heart.  "  What  do  people  say 
of  me,  Scipio." 

"  Sir !  my  poor  master !  that  you  had  a  serpent  in 
your  bosom,"  answered  the  servant  with  hesitation. 

"  And  what  else  ?  "  asked  Roderick,  with  a  ghastly 
look  at  the  man. 

"  Nothing  else,  dear  master,"  replied  Scipio,  "  only 
that  the  doctor  gave  you  a  powder,  and  that  the  snake 
leaped  out  upon  the  floor." 

"  No,  no !  "  muttered  Roderick  to  himself,  as  he 
shook  his  head,  and  pressed  his  hands  with  a  more 
convulsive  force  upon  his  breast,  "  I  feel  him  still. 
It  gnaws  me  !  It  gnaws  me  !  " 

From  this  time  the  miserable  sufferer  ceased  to 
shun  the  world,  but  rather  solicited  and  forced  him 
self  upon  the  notice  of  acquaintances  and  strangers. 
It  was  partly  the  result  of  desperation  on  finding  that 


EGOTISM;   OR,   THE  BOSOM  SERPENT     309 

the  cavern  of  his  own  bosom  had  not  proved  deep  and 
dark  enough  to  hide  the  secret,  even  while  it  was  so 
secure  a  fortress  for  the  loathsome  fiend  that  had 
crept  into  it.  But  still  more,  this  craving  for  notori 
ety  was  a  symptom  of  the  intense  morbidness  which 
now  pervaded  his  nature.  All  persons  chronically 
diseased  are  egotists,  whether  the  disease  be  of  the 
mind  or  body;  whether  it  be  sin,  sorrow,  or  merely 
the  more  tolerable  calamity  of  some  endless  pain,  or 
mischief  among  the  cords  of  mortal  life.  Such  indi 
viduals  are  made  acutely  conscious  of  a  self,  by  the 
torture  in  which  it  dwells.  Self,  therefore,  grows  to 
be  so  prominent  an  object  with  them  that  they  cannot 
but  present  it  to  the  face  of  every  casual  passer-by. 
There  is  a  pleasure  —  perhaps  the  greatest  of  which 
the  sufferer  is  susceptible  —  in  displaying  the  wasted 
or  ulcerated  limb,  or  the  cancer  in  the  breast ;  and  the 
fouler  the  crime,  with  so  much  the  more  difficulty  does 
the  perpetrator  prevent  it  from  thrusting  up  its  snake- 
like  head  to  frighten  the  world ;  for  it  is  that  cancer, 
or  that  crime,  which  constitutes  their  respective  in 
dividuality.  Roderick  Elliston,  who,  a  little  while  be 
fore,  had  held  himself  so  scornfully  above  the  common 
lot  of  men,  now  paid  full  allegiance  to  this  humili 
ating  law.  The  snake  in  his  bosom  seemed  the  sym 
bol  of  a  monstrous  egotism  to  which  everything  was  re 
ferred,  and  which  he  pampered,  night  and  day,  with 
a  continual  and  exclusive  sacrifice  of  devil  worship. 

He  soon  exhibited  what  most  people  considered  in 
dubitable  tokens  of  insanity.  In  some  of  his  moods, 
strange  to  say,  he  prided  and  gloried  himself  on  be 
ing  marked  out  from  the  ordinary  experience  of  man 
kind,  by  the  possession  of  a  double  nature,  and  a  life 
within  a  life.  He  appeared  to  imagine  that  the  snake 


X 


310          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

was  a  divinity,  —  not  celestial,  it  is  true,  but  darkly 
infernal,  —  and  that  he  thence  derived  an  eminence 
and  a  sanctity,  horrid,  indeed,  yet  more  desirable  than 
whatever  ambition  aims  at.  Thus  he  drew  his  mis 
ery  around  him  like  a  regal  mantle,  and  looked  down 
triumphantly  upon  those  whose  vitals  nourished  no 
deadly  monster.  Oftener,  however,  his  human  nature 
asserted  its  empire  over  him  in  the  shape  of  a  yearn 
ing  for  fellowship.  It  grew  to  be  his  custom  to  spend 
the  whole  day  in  wandering  about  the  streets,  aim 
lessly,  unless  it  might  be  called  an  aim  to  establish  a 
fcpecies  of  brotherhood  between  himself  and  the  world. 
With  cankered  ingenuity,  he  sought  out  his  own  dis 
ease  in  every  breast.  Whether  insane  or  not,  he 
ihowed  so  keen  a  perception  of  frailty,  error,  and 
rice,  that  ir  any  persons  gave  him  credit  for  being 
possessed  not  merely  with  a  serpent,  but  with  an  ac 
tual  fiend,  who  imparted  this  evil  faculty  of  recog 
nizing  whatever  was  ugliest  in  man's  heart. 

For  instance,  he  met  an  individual,  who,  for  thirty 
J-ears,  had  cherished  a  hatred  against  his  own  brother. 
Roderick,  amidst  the  throng  of  the  street,  laid  his  hand 
on  this  man's  chest,  and  looking  full  into  his  forbid 
ding  face,  — 

"  How  is  the  snake  to-day  ?  "  he  inquired,  with  a 
mock  expression  of  sympathy. 

"  The  snake  !  "  exclaimed  the  brother  hater  — 
"  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  snake  !  The  snake !  Does  he  gnaw  you  ?  " 
persisted  Roderick.  "  Did  you  take  counsel  with  him 
this  morning  when  you  should  have  been  saying  your 
prayers  ?  Did  he  sting,  when  you  thought  of  your 
brother's  health,  wealth,  and  good  repute?  Did  he 
eaper  for  joy,  when  you  remembered  the  profligacy  of 


EGOTISM;    OR,    THE  BOSOM  SERPENT.    311 

his  only  son  ?  And  whether  he  stung,  or  whether  he 
frolicked,  did  you  feel  his  poison  throughout  your  body 
and  soul,  converting  everything  to  sourness  and  bit 
terness  ?  That  is  the  way  of  such  serpents.  I  have 
learned  the  whole  nature  of  them  from  my  own !  " 

"  Where  is  the  police  ?  "  roared  the  object  of  Rod 
erick's  persecution,  at  the  same  time  giving  an  in 
stinctive  clutch  to  his  breast.  "  Why  is  this  luna 
tic  allowed  to  go  at  large  ?  " 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  chuckled  Roderick,  releasing  his  grasp 
of  the  man.  "  His  bosom  serpent  has  stung  him 
then!" 

Often  it  pleased  the  unfortunate  young  man  to  vex 
people  with  a  lighter  satire,  yet  still  characterized  by 
somewhat  of  snakelike  virulence.  One  day  he  en 
countered  an  ambitious  statesman,  and  gravely  in 
quired  after  the  welfare  of  his  boa  constrictor ;  for  of 
that  species,  Roderick  affirmed,  this  gentleman's  ser 
pent  must  needs  be,  since  its  appetite  was  enormous 
enough  to  devour  the  whole  country  and  constitution. 
At  another  time,  he  stopped  a  close-fisted  old  fellow, 
of  great  wealth,  but  who  skulked  about  the  city  in 
the  guise  of  a  scarecrow,  with  a  patched  blue  surtout, 
brown  hat,  and  mouldy  boots,  scraping  pence  together, 
and  picking  up  rusty  nails.  Pretending  to  look  ear 
nestly  at  this  respectable  person's  stomach,  Roderick 
assured  him  that  his  snake  was  a  copper-head,  and 
had  been  generated  by  the  immense  quantities  of 
that  base  metal,  with  which  he  daily  defiled  his  fin 
gers.  Again,  he  assaulted  a  man  of  rubicund  vis 
age,  and  told  him  that  few  bosom  serpents  had  more 
of  the  devil  in  them  than  those  that  breed  in  the  vats 
of  a  distillery.  The  next  whom  Roderick  honored 
with  his  attention  was  a  distinguished  clergyman, 


312          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

who  happened  just  then  to  be  engaged  in  a  theolog 
ical  controversy,  where  human  wrath  was  more  pei* 
ceptible  than  divine  inspiration. 

"  You  have  swallowed  a  snake  in  a  cup  of  sacramen 
tal  wine,"  quoth  he. 

"  Profane  wretch  !  "  exclaimed  the  divine ;  but, 
nevertheless,  his  hand  stole  to  his  breast. 

He  met  a  person  of  sickly  sensibility,  who,  on  some 
early  disappointment,  had  retired  from  the  world,  and 
thereafter  held  no  intercourse  with  his  fellow-men,  but 
brooded  sullenly  or  passionately  over  the  irrevocable 
past.  This  man's  very  heart,  if  Roderick  might  be 
believed,  had  been  changed  into  a  serpent,  which 
would  finally  torment  both  him  and  itself  to  death. 
Observing  a  married  couple,  whose  domestic  troubles 
were  matter  of  notoriety,  he  condoled  with  both  on 
having  mutually  taken  a  house  adder  to  their  bosoms. 
To  an  envious  author,  who  depreciated  works  which 
he  could  never  equal,  he  said  that  his  snake  was  the 
slimiest  and  filthiest  of  all  the  reptile  tribe,  but  was 
fortunately  without  a  sting.  A  man  of  impure  life, 
and  a  brazen  face,  asking  Roderick  if  there  were  any 
serpent  in  his  breast,  he  told  him  that  there  was,  and 
of  the  same  species  that  once  tortured  Don  Rodrigo, 
the  Goth.  He  took  a  fair  young  girl  by  the  hand, 
and  gazing  sadly  into  her  eyes,  warned  her  that  she 
cherished  a  serpent  of  the  deadliest  kind  within  her 
gentle  breast ;  and  the  world  found  the  truth  of  those 
ominous  words,  when,  a  few  months  afterwards,  the 
poor  girl  died  of  love  and  shame.  Two  ladies,  rivals 
in  fashionable  life,  who  tormented  one  another  with  a 
thousand  little  stings  of  womanish  spite,  were  given 
to  understand  that  each  of  their  hearts  was  a  nest  of 
diminutive  snakes,  which  did  quite  as  much  mischief 
as  one  great  one. 


EGOTISM;    OR,    THE  BOSOM  SERPENT.     313 

But  nothing  seemed  to  please  Roderick  better  than 
to  lay  hold  of  a  person  infected  with  jealousy,  which 
he  represented  as  an  enormous  green  reptile,  with  an 
Jce-cold  length  of  body,  and  the  sharpest  sting  of  any 
snake  save  one. 

"  And  what  one  is  that  ?  "  asked  a  by-stander,  over 
hearing  him. 

It  was  a  dark-browed  man  who  put  the  question ; 
he  had  an  evasive  eye,  which  in  the  course  of  a  dozen 
years  had  looked  no  mortal  directly  in  the  face.  There 
was  an  ambiguity  about  this  person's  character,  —  a 
stain  upon  his  reputation,  —  yet  none  could  tell  pre 
cisely  of  what  nature,  although  the  city  gossips,  male 
and  female,  whispered  the  most  atrocious  surmises. 
Until  a  recent  period  he  had  followed  the  sea,  and 
was,  in  fact,  the  very  shipmaster  whom  George  Her- 
kimer  had  encountered,  under  such  singular  circum 
stances,  in  the  Grecian  Archipelago. 

"  What  bosom  serpent  has  the  sharpest  sting  ?  "  re 
peated  this  man  ;  but  he  put  the  question  as  if  by  a 
reluctant  necessity,  and  grew  pale  while  he  was  utter 
ing  it. 

"  Why  need  you  ask  ?  "  replied  Roderick,  with  a 
look  of  dark  intelligence.  "  Look  into  your  own 
breast.  Hark !  my  serpent  bestirs  himself !  He 
acknowledges  the  presence  of  a  master  fiend !  " 

And  then,  as  the  by-standers  afterwards  affirmed,  a 
hissing  sound  was  heard,  apparently  in  Roderick  Ellis* 
ton's  breast.  It  was  said,  too,  that  an  answering  hiss 
came  from  the  vitals  of  the  shipmaster,  as  if  a  snake 
were  actually  lurking  there  and  had  been  aroused  by 
the  call  of  its  brother  reptile.  If  there  were  in  fact 
any  such  sound,  it  might  have  been  caused  by  a  mail 
cious  exercise  of  ventriloquism  on  the  part  of  Roder> 
ick 


314  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Thus  making  his  own  actual  serpent  —  if  a  serpent 
there  actually  was  in  his  bosom — the  type  of  each 
man's  fatal  error,  or  hoarded  sin,  or  unquiet  con 
science,  and  striking  his  sting  so  unremorsefully  into 
the  sorest  spot,  we  may  well  imagine  that  Roderick 
became  the  pest  of  the  city.  Nobody  could  elude  him 
—  none  could  withstand  him.  He  grappled  with  the 
ugliest  truth  that  he  could  lay  his  hand  on,  and  com 
pelled  his  adversary  to  do  the  same.  Strange  spec 
tacle  in  human  life  where  it  is  the  instinctive  effort 
of  one  and  all  to  hide  those  sad  realities,  and  leave 
them  undisturbed  beneath  a  heap  of  superficial  topics 
which  constitute  the  materials  of  intercourse  between 
man  and  man !  It  was  not  to  be  tolerated  that  Rod 
erick  Elliston  should  break  through  the  tacit  compact 
by  which  the  world  has  done  its  best  to  secure  repose 
without  relinquishing  evil.  The  victims  of  his  mali 
cious  remarks,  it  is  true,  had  brothers  enough  to  keep 
them  in  countenance ;  for,  by  Roderick's  theory,  every 
mortal  bosom  harbored  either  a  brood  of  small  ser 
pents  or  one  overgrown  monster  that  had  devoured 
all  the  rest.  Still  the  city  could  not  bear  this  new 
apostle.  It  was  demanded  by  nearly  all,  and  par 
ticularly  by  the  most  respectable  inhabitants,  that 
Roderick  should  no  longer  be  permitted  to  violate 
the  received  rules  of  decorum  by  obtruding  his  own 
bosom  serpent  to  the  public  gaze,  and  dragging  those 
of  decent  people  from  their  lurking  places. 

Accordingly,  his  relatives  interfered  and  placed 
him  in  a  private  asylum  for  the  insane.  When  the 
news  was  noised  abroad,  it  was  observed  that  many 
persons  walked  the  streets  with  freer  countenances 
and  covered  their  breasts  less  carefully  with  their 
hands. 


EGOTISM;    OR,    THE  BOSOM  SERPENT.     315 

His  confinement,  however,  although  it  contributed 
not  a  little  to  the  peace  of  the  town,  operated  unfa 
vorably  upon  Roderick  himself.  In  solitude  his  mel 
ancholy  grew  more  black  and  sullen.  He  spent  whole 
days  —  indeed,  it  was  his  sole  occupation  —  in  com 
muning  with  the  serpent.  A  conversation  was  sus 
tained,  in  which,  as  it  seemed,  the  hidden  monster 
bore  a  part,  though  unintelligibly  to  the  listeners, 
and  inaudible  except  in  a  hiss.  Singular  as  it  may 
appear,  the  sufferer  had  now  contracted  a  sort  of  af 
fection  for  his  tormentor,  mingled,  however,  with  the 
intensest  loathing  and  horror.  Nor  were  such  dis 
cordant  emotions  incompatible.  Each,  on  the  con 
trary,  imparted  strength  and  poignancy  to  its  oppo 
site.  Horrible  love — horrible  antipathy  —  embrac 
ing  one  another  in  his  bosom,  and  both  concentrat 
ing  themselves  upon  a  being  that  had  crept  into  his 
vitals  or  been  engendered  there,  and  which  was  nour 
ished  with  his  food,  and  lived  upon  his  life,  and  was 
as  intimate  with  him  as  his  own  heart,  and  yet  was 
the  foulest  of  all  created  things !  But  not  the  less 
was  it  the  true  type  of  a  morbid  nature. 

Sometimes,  in  his  moments  of  rage  and  bitter  ha 
tred  against  the  snake  and  himself,  Roderick  deter 
mined  to  be  the  death  of  him,  even  at  the  expense  of 
his  own  life.  Once  he  attempted  it  by  starvation ; 
but,  while  the  wretched  man  was  on  the  point  of  f am 
ishing,  the  monster  seemed  to  feed  upon  his  heart, 
and  to  thrive  and  wax  gamesome,  as  if  it  were  his 
sweetest  and  most  congenial  diet.  Then  he  privily 
took  a  dose  of  active  poison,  imagining  that  it  would 
not  fail  to  kill  either  himself  or  the  devil  that  pos 
sessed  him,  or  both  together.  Another  mistake ;  for 
if  Roderick  had  not  yet  been  destroyed  by  his  own 


316          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

poisoned  heart  nor  the  snake  by  gnawing  it,  they  had 
little  to  fear  from  arsenic  or  corrosive  sublimate.  In 
deed,  the  venomous  pest  appeared  to  operate  as  an 
antidote  against  all  other  poisons.  The  physicians 
tried  to  suffocate  the  fiend  with  tobacco  smoke.  He 
breathed  it  as  freely  as  if  it  were  his  native  atmos 
phere.  Again,  they  drugged  their  patient  with  opium 
and  drenched  him  with  intoxicating  liquors,  hoping 
that  the  snake  might  thus  be  reduced  to  stupor  and 
perhaps  be  ejected  from  the  stomach.  They  suc 
ceeded  in  rendering  Koderick  insensible  ;  but,  placing 
their  hands  upon  his  breast,  they  were  inexpressibly 
horror  stricken  to  feel  the  monster  wriggling,  twining? 
and  darting  to  and  fro  within  his  narrow  limits,  evi 
dently  enlivened  by  the  opium  or  alcohol,  and  incited 
to  unusual  feats  of  activity.  Thenceforth  they  gave  up 
all  attempts  at  cure  or  palliation.  The  doomed  suf 
ferer  submitted  to  his  fate,  resumed  his  former  loath 
some  affection  for  the  bosom  fiend,  and  spent  whole 
miserable  days  before  a  looking-glass,  with  his  mouth 
wide  open,  watching,  in  hope  and  horror,  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  snake's  head  far  down  within  his 
throat.  It  is  supposed  that  he  succeeded;  for  the 
attendants  once  heard  a  frenzied  shout,  and,  rush 
ing  into  the  room,  found  Roderick  lifeless  upon  the 
floor. 

He  was  kept  but  little  longer  under  restraint.  Af 
ter  minute  investigation,  the  medical  directors  of  the 
asylum  decided  that  his  mental  disease  did  not  amount 
to  insanity,  nor  would  warrant  his  confinement,  espe 
cially  as  its  influence  upon  his  spirits  was  unfavorable, 
and  might  produce  the  evil  which  it  was  meant  to  rem 
edy.  His  eccentricities  were  doubtless  great ;  he  had 
habitually  violated  many  of  the  customs  and  preji* 


EGOTISM;   OR,    THE   BOSOM  SERPENT.    317 

dices  of  society  ;  but  the  world  was  not,  without  surer 
ground,  entitled  to  treat  him  as  a  madman.  On  this 
decision  of  such  competent  authority  Roderick  was 
released,  and  had  returned  to  his  native  city  the  very 
day  before  his  encounter  with  George  Herkimer. 

As  soon  as  possible  after  learning  these  particulars 
the  sculptor,  together  with  a  sad  and  tremulous  com 
panion,  sought  Elliston  at  his  own  house.  It  was  a 
large,  sombre  edifice  of  wood,  with  pilasters  and  a 
balcony,  and  was  divided  from  one  of  the  principal 
streets  by  a  terrace  of  three  elevations,  which  was 
ascended  by  successive  flights  of  stone  steps.  Some 
immense  old  elms  almost  concealed  the  front  of  the 
mansion.  This  spacious  and  once  magnificent  family 
residence  was  built  by  a  grandee  of  the  race  early  in 
the  past  century,  at  which  epoch,  land  being  of  small 
comparative  value,  the  garden  and  other  grounds  had 
formed  quite  an  extensive  domain.  Although  a  por 
tion  of  the  ancestral  heritage  had  been  alienated,  there 
was  still  a  shadowy  enclosure  in  the  rear  of  the  man 
sion  where  a  student,  or  a  dreamer,  or  a  man  of 
stricken  heart  might  lie  all  day  upon  the  grass,  amid 
the  solitude  of  murmuring  boughs,  and  forget  that  a 
city  had  grown  up  around  him.  . 

Into  this  retirement  the  sculptor  and  his  companion 
were  ushered  by  Scipio,  the  old  black  servant,  whose 
wrinkled  visage  grew  almost  sunny  with  intelligence 
and  joy  as  he  paid  his  humble  greetings  to  one  of  the 
two  visitors. 

"  Remain  in  the  arbor,"  whispered  the  sculptor  to 
the  figure  that  leaned  upon  his  arm.  "You  will  know 
whether,  and  when,  to  make  your  appearance." 

"  God  will  teach  me,"  was  the  reply.  "  May  He 
Bupport  me  too  1  " 


318  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

Roderick  was  reclining  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain 
which  gushed  into  the  fleckered  sunshine  with  the  same 
clear  sparkle  and  the  same  voice  of  airy  quietude  as 
when  trees  of  primeval  growth  flung  their  shadows 
across  its  bosom.  How  strange  is  the  life  of  a  foun 
tain  !  —  born  at  every  moment,  yet  of  an  age  coeval 
with  the  rocks,  and  far  surpassing  the  venerable  antiq 
uity  of  a  forest. 

"  You  are  come  !  I  have  expected  you,"  said  Ellis- 
ton,  when  he  became  aware  of  the  sculptor's  pres 
ence. 

His  manner  was  very  different  from  that  of  the 
preceding  day  —  quiet,  courteous,  and,  as  Herkimer 
thought,  watchful  both  over  his  guest  and  himself. 
This  unnatural  restraint  was  almost  the  only  trait  that 
betokened  anything  amiss.  He  had  just  thrown  a 
book  upon  the  grass,  where  it  lay  half  opened,  thus 
disclosing  itself  to  be  a  natural  history  of  the  serpent 
tribe,  illustrated  by  lifelike  plates.  Near  it  lay  that 
bulky  volume,  the  Ductor  Dubitantium  of  Jeremy 
Taylor,  full  of  cases  of  conscience,  and  in  which 
most  men,  possessed  of  a  conscience,  may  find  some 
thing  applicable  to  their  purpose. 

"  You  see,"  observed  Elliston,  pointing  to  the  book 
of  serpents,  while  a  smile  gleamed  upon  his  lips,  "  I 
am  making  an  effort  to  become  better  acquainted 
with  my  bosom  friend  ;  but  I  find  nothing  satisfac 
tory  in  this  volume.  If  I  mistake  not,  he  will  prove 
to  be  sui  generis,  and  akin  to  no  other  reptile  in  cre 
ation." 

"  Whence  came  this  strange  calamity  ?  "  inquired 
the  sculptor. 

"  My  sable  friend  Scipio  has  a  story,"  replied  Rod* 
erick,  "  of  a  snake  that  had  lurked  in  this  fountain  — 


EGOTISM;   OR,    THE  BOSOM  SERPENT.    319 

pure  and  innocent  as  it  looks  —  ever  since  it  was 
known  to  the  first  settlers.  This  insinuating  person 
age  once  crept  into  the  vitals  of  my  great  grandfather 
and  dwelt  there  many  years,  tormenting  the  old  gen 
tleman  beyond  mortal  endurance.  In  short  it  is  a 
family  peculiarity.  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have 
no  faith  in  this  idea  of  the  snake's  being  an  heirloom. 
He  is  my  own  snake,  and  no  man's  else." 

"  But  what  was  his  origin  ?  "  demanded  Herkimer. 

"  Oh,  there  is  poisonous  stuff  in  any  man's  heart 
sufficient  to  generate  a  brood  of  serpents,"  said  Ellis- 
ton  with  a  hollow  laugh.  "  You  should  have  heard 
my  homilies  to  the  good  town's-people.  Positively,  I 
deem  myself  fortunate  in  having  bred  but  a  single  ser 
pent.  You,  however,  have  none  in  your  bosom,  and 
therefore  cannot  sympathize  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
It  gnaws  me !  It  gnaws  me !  " 

With  this  exclamation  Roderick  lost  his  self-control 
and  threw  himself  upon  the  grass,  testifying  his  agony 
by  intricate  writhings,  in  which  Herkimer  could  not 
but  fancy  a  resemblance  to  the  motions  of  a  snake. 
Then,  likewise,  was  heard  that  frightful  hiss,  which 
often  ran  through  the  sufferer's  speech,  and  crept  be 
tween  the  words  and  syllables  without  interrupting 
their  succession. 

"  This  is  awful  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  the  sculptor  — 
"  an  awful  infliction,  whether  it  be  actual  or  imaginary. 
Tell  me,  Roderick  Elliston,  is  there  any  remedy  for 
this  loathsome  evil  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  an  impossible  one,"  muttered  Roderick, 
as  he  lay  wallowing  with  his  face  in  the  grass.  "  Could 
I  for  one  instant  forget  myself,  the  serpent  might  not 
abide  within  me.  It  is  my  diseased  self -contemplation 
that  has  engendered  and  nourished  him." 


320          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Then  forget  yourself,  my  husband,"  said  a  gentle 
voice  above  him ;  "  forget  yourself  in  the  idea  of 
another !  " 

Rosina  had  emerged  from  the  arbor,  and  was  bend 
ing  over  him  with  the  shadow  of  his  anguish  reflected 
in  her  countenance,  yet  so  mingled  with  hope  and  un 
selfish  love  that  all  anguish  seemed  but  an  earthly 
shadow  and  a  dream.  She  touched  Roderick  with 
her  hand.  A  tremor  shivered  through  his  frame.  At 
that  moment,  if  report  be  trustworthy,  the  sculptor 
beheld  a  waving  motion  through  the  grass,  and  heard 
a  tinkling  sound,  as  if  something  had  plunged  into  the 
fountain.  Be  the  truth  as  it  might,  it  is  certain  that 
Roderick  Elliston  sat  up  like  a  man  renewed,  restored 
to  his  right  mind,  and  rescued  from  the  fiend  which 
had  so  miserably  overcome  him  in  the  battle-field  of 
his  own  breast. 

*  Rosina!  "  cried  he,  in  broken  and  passionate  tones, 
but  with  nothing  of  the  wild  wail  that  had  haunted 

O 

his  voice  so  long,  "  forgive  !  forgive !  " 

Her  happy  tears  bedewed  his  face. 

"The  punishment  has  been  severe,"  observed  the 
sculptor.  "  Even  Justice  might  now  forgive ;  how 
much  more  a  woman's  tenderness !  Roderick  Elliston, 
whether  the  serpent  was  a  physical  reptile,  or  whether 
the  morbidness  of  your  nature  suggested  that  symbol 
to  your  fancy,  the  moral  of  the  story  is  not  the  less 
true  and  strong.  A  tremendous  Egotism,  manifest 
ing  itself  in  your  case  in  the  form  of  jealousy,  is  as 
fearful  a  fiend  as  ever  stole  into  the  human  heart. 
Can  a  breast,  where  it  has  dwelt  so  long,  be  puri 
fied?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Rosina  with  a  heavenly  smile.    "  The 


EGOTISM,    OR,    THE  BOSOM  SERPENT.    321 

serpent  was  but  a  dark  fantasy,  and  what  it  typified 
was  as  shadowy  as  itself.  The  past,  dismal  as  it 
seems,  shall  fliiig  no  gloom  upon  the  future.  To 
give  it  its  due  importance  we  must  think  of  it  but  as 
an  anecdote  in  our  Eternity." 
VOL.  n.  *t 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 

[FROM  THE  UNPUBLISHED  "ALLEGORIES  OP  THE  HEART."] 

"I  have  here  attempted,"  said  Roderick,  unfolding 
a  few  sheets  of  manuscript,  as  he  sat  with  Rosina  and 
the  sculptor  in  the  summer-house,  —  "I  have  attempted 
to  seize  hold  of  a  personage  who  glides  past  me  occa 
sionally,  in  my  walk  through  life.  My  former  sad 
experience,  as  you  know,  has  gifted  me  with  some 
degree  of  insight  into  the  gloomy  mysteries  of  the 
human  heart,  through  which  I  have  wandered  like  one 
astray  in  a  dark  cavern,  with  his  torch  fast  flickering 
to  extinction.  But  this  man,  this  class  of  men,  is  a 
hopeless  puzzle." 

"  Well,  but  propound  him,"  said  the  sculptor.  "  Let 
us  have  an  idea  of  him,  to  begin  with." 

"  Why,  indeed,"  replied  Roderick,  "  he  is  such  a 
being  as  I  could  conceive  you  to  carve  out  of  marble, 
and  some  yet  unrealized  perfection  of  human  science 
to  endow  with  an  exquisite  mockery  of  intellect;  but 
still  there  lacks  the  last  inestimable  touch  of  a  divine 
Creator.  He  looks  like  a  man ;  and,  perchance,  like  a 
better  specimen  of  man  than  you  ordinarily  meet.  You 
might  esteem  him  wise ;  he  is  capable  of  cultivation 
and  refinement,  and  has  at  least  an  external  conscience, 
but  the  demands  that  spirit  makes  upon  spirit  are  pre 
cisely  those  to  which  he  cannot  respond.  When  at 
last  you  come  close  to  him  you  find  him  chill  and 
unsubstantial  — a  mere  vapor." 


THE    CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 

u  I  believe,"  said  Rosina,  "  I  have  a  glimmering  idea 
of  what  you  mean." 

"  Then  be  thankful,"  answered  her  husband,  smil 
ing ;  "  but  do  not  anticipate  any  further  illumination 
from  what  I  am  about  to  read.  I  have  here  imagined 
such  a  man  to  be  —  what,  probabty,  he  never  is  —  con 
scious  of  the  deficiency  in  his  spiritual  organization. 
Methinks  the  result  would  be  a  sense  of  cold  unreal 
ity  wherewith  he  would  go  shivering  through  the 
world,  longing  to  exchange  his  load  of  ice  for  any 
burden  of  real  grief  that  fate  could  fling  upon  a  hu 
man  being." 

Contenting  himself  with  this  preface,  Roderick  be 
gan  to  read. 

In  a  certain  old  gentleman's  last  will  and  testament 
there  appeared  a  bequest,  which,  as  his  final  thought 
and  deed,  was  singularly  in  keeping  with  a  long  life  of 
melancholy  eccentricity.  He  devised  a  considerable 
sum  for  establishing  a  fund,  the  interest  of  which  was 
to  be  expended,  annually  forever,  in  preparing  a  Christ 
mas  Banquet  for  ten  of  the  most  miserable  persons  that 
could  be  found.  It  seemed  not  to  be  the  testator's  pur 
pose  to  make  these  half  a  score  of  sad  hearts  merry, 
but  to  provide  that  the  stern  or  fierce  expression  of 
human  discontent  should  not  be  drowned,  even  for  that 
one  holy  and  joyful  day,  amid  the  acclamations  of  fes 
tal  gratitude  which  all  Christendom  sends  up.  And  he 
desired,  likewise,  to  perpetuate  his  own  remonstrance 
against  the  earthly  course  of  Providence,  and  his  sad 
and  sour  dissent  from  those  systems  of  religion  or  phi 
losophy  which  either  find  sunshine  in  the  world  or 
draw  it  down  from  heaven. 

The   task   of   inviting  the   guests,  or   of   selecting 


824  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

among  such  as  might  advance  their  claims  to  par* 
take  of  this  dismal  hospitality,  was  confided  to  the 
two  trustees  or  stewards  of  the  fund.  These  gentle 
men,  like  their  deceased  friend,  were  sombre  humor 
ists,  who  made  it  their  principal  occupation  to  number 
the  sable  threads  in  the  web  of  human  life,  and  drop 
all  the  golden  ones  out  of  the  reckoning.  They  per 
formed  their  present  office  with  integrity  and  judg 
ment.  The  aspect  of  the  assembled  company  on  the 
day  of  the  first  festival  might  not,  it  is  true,  have  sat 
isfied  every  beholder  that  these  were  especially  the  in 
dividuals,  chosen  forth  from  all  the  world,  whose  griefs 
were  worthy  to  stand  as  indicators  of  the  mass  of  hu 
man  suffering.  Yet,  after  due  consideration,  it  could 
not  be  disputed  that  here  was  a  variety  of  hopeless  dis 
comfort,  which,  if  it  sometimes  arose  from  causes  ap 
parently  inadequate,  was  thereby  only  the  shrewder 
imputation  against  the  nature  and  mechanism  of  life. 

The  arrangements  and  decorations  of  the  banquet 
were  probably  intended  to  signify  that  death  in  life 
which  had  been  the  testator's  definition  of  existence. 
The  hall,  illuminated  by  torches,  was  hung  round  with 
curtains  of  deep  and  dusky  purple,  and  adorned  with 
branches  of  cypress  and  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers, 
imitative  of  such  as  used  to  be  strown  over  the  dead. 
A  sprig  of  parsley  was  laid  by  every  plate.  The  main 
reservoir  of  wine  was  a  sepulchral  urn  of  silver,  whence 
the  liquor  was  distributed  around  the  table  in  small 
vases,  accurately  copied  from  those  that  held  the  tears 
of  ancient  mourners.  Neither  had  the  stewards — if 
it  were  their  taste  that  arranged  these  details  —  for 
gotten  the  fantasy  of  the  old  Egyptians,  who  seated 
a  skeleton  at  every  festive  board,  and  mocked  their 
own  merriment  with  the  imperturbable  grin  of  a 


THE   CHRIS TMA S  BANQUET.  325 

death's  head.  Such  a  fearful  guest,  shrouded  in  a 
black  mantle,  sat  now  at  the  head  of  the  table.  It 
was  whispered,  I  know  not  with  what  truth,  that  the 
testator  himself  had  once  walked  the  visible  world 
with  the  machinery  of  that  same  skeleton,  and  that  it 
was  one  of  the  stipulations  of  his  will  that  he  should 
thus  be  permitted  to  sit,  from  year  to  year,  at  the  ban 
quet  which  he  had  instituted.  If  so,  it  was  perhaps 
covertly  implied  that  he  had  cherished  no  hopes  of 
bliss  beyond  the  grave  to  compensate  for  the  evils 
which  he  felt  or  imagined  here.  And  if,  in  their  be 
wildered  conjectures  as  to  the  purpose  of  earthly  exist 
ence,  the  banqueters  should  throw  aside  the  veil,  and 
cast  an  inquiring  glance  at  this  figure  of  death,  as 
seeking  thence  the  solution  otherwise  unattainable, 
the  only  reply  would  be  a  stare  of  the  vacant  eye  cav 
erns  and  a  grin  of  the  skeleton  jaws.  Such  was  the 
response  that  the  dead  man  had  fancied  himself  to 
receive  when  he  asked  of  Death  to  solve  the  riddle  of 
his  life ;  and  it  was  his  desire  to  repeat  it  when  the 
guests  of  his  dismal  hospitality  should  find  themselves 
perplexed  with  the  same  question. 

"  What  means  that  wreath  ?  "  asked  several  of  the 
company,  while  viewing  the  decorations  of  the  table. 

They  alluded  to  a  wreath  of  cypress  which  was 
held  on  high  by  a  skeleton  arm,  protruding  from 
within  the  black  mantle. 

"  It  is  a  crown,"  said  one  of  the  stewards,  "  not  for  \ 
the  worthiest,  but  for  the  wof ulest,  when  he  shall  prove 
his  claim  to  it." 

The  guest  earliest  bidden  to  the  festival  was  a  man 
of  soft  and  gentle  character,  who  had  not  energy  to 
struggle  against  the  heavy  despondency  to  which  his 
temperament  rendered  him  liable  ;  and  therefore  with 


326          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

nothing  outwardly  to  excuse  him  from  happiness,  he 
had  spent  a  life  of  quiet  misery  that  made  his  blood 
torpid,  and  weighed  upon  his  breath,  and  sat  like  a 
ponderous  night  fiend  upon  every  throb  of  his  unre 
sisting  heart.  His  wretchedness  seemed  as  deep  as  his 
original  nature,  if  not  identical  with  it.  It  was  the 
misfortune  of  a  second  guest  to  cherish  within  his  bo 
som  a  diseased  heart,  which  had  become  so  wretchedly 
sore  that  the  continual  and  unavoidable  rubs  of  the 
world,  the  blow  of  an  enemy,  the  careless  jostle  of  a 
stranger,  and  even  the  faithful  and  loving  touch  of  a 
friend,  alike  made  ulcers  in  it.  As  is  the  habit  of 
people  thus  afflicted,  he  found  his  chief  employment  in 
exhibiting  these  miserable  sores  to  any  who  would  give 
themselves  the  pain  of  viewing  them.  A  third  guest 
was  a  hypochondriac,  whose  imagination  wrought  nec 
romancy  in  its  outward  and  inward  world,  and  caused 
him  to  see  monstrous  faces  in  the  household  fire,  and 
dragons  in  the  clouds  of  sunset,  and  fiends  in  the  guise 
of  beautiful  women,  and  something  ugly  or  wicked  be 
neath  all  the  pleasant  surfaces  of  nature.  His  neigh 
bor  at  table  was  one  who,  in  his  early  youth,  had 
trusted  mankind  too  much,  and  hoped  too  highly  in 
their  behalf,  and,  in  meeting  with  many  disappoint 
ments,  had  become  desperately  soured.  For  several 
years  back  this  misanthrope  had  employed  himself  in 
accumulating  motives  for  hating  and  despising  his  race 
—  such  as  murder,  lust,  treachery,  ingratitude,  faithless 
ness  of  trusted  friends,  instinctive  vices  of  children,  im 
purity  of  women,  hidden  guilt  in  men  of  saintlike  as 
pect  —  and,  in  short,  all  manner  of  black  realities  that 
sought  to  decorate  themselves  with  outward  grace  or 
glory.  But  at  every  atrocious  fact  that  was  added  to 
his  catalogue,  at  every  increase  of  the  sad  knowledge 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  327 

which  he  spent  his  life  to  collect,  the  native  impulses 
of  the  poor  man's  loving  and  confiding  heart  made 
him  groan  with  anguish.  Next,  with  his  heavy  brow 
bent  downward,  there  stole  into  the  hall  a  man  natu 
rally  earnest  and  impassioned,  who,  from  his  immemo 
rial  infancy,  had  felt  the  consciousness  of  a  high  mes 
sage  to  the  world;  but,  essaying  to  deliver  it,  ha<J 
found  either  no  voice  or  form  of  speech,  or  else  no 
ears  to  listen.  Therefore  his  whole  life  was  a  bitter 
questioning  of  himself  — "  Why  have  not  men  ac 
knowledged  my  mission?  Am  I  not  a  self -deluding 
fool?  What  business  have  I  on  earth?  Where  is 
my  grave  ?  "  Throughout  the  festival,  he  quaffed  fre 
quent  draughts  from  the  sepulchral  urn  of  wine,  hop 
ing  thus  to  quench  the  celestial  fire  that  tortured  his 
own  breast  and  could  not  benefit  his  race. 

Then  there  entered,  having  flung  away  a  ticket  for  a 
ball,  a  gay  gallant  of  yesterday,  who  had  found  four 
or  five  wrinkles  in  his  brow,  and  more  gray  hairs  than 
he  could  well  number  on  his  head.  Endowed  with 
sense  and  feeling,  he  had  nevertheless  spent  his  youth 
in  folly,  but  had  reached  at  last  that  dreary  point  in 
life  where  Folly  quits  us  of  her  own  accord,  leaving 
us  to  make  friends  with  Wisdom  if  we  can.  Thus, 
cold  and  desolate,  he  had  come  to  seek  Wisdom  at 
the  banquet,  and  wondered  if  the  skeleton  were  she. 
To  eke  out  the  company,  the  stewards  had  invited  a 
distressed  poet  from  his  home  in  the  almshouse,  and 
a  melancholy  idiot  from  the  street  corner.  The  latter 
had  just  the  glimmering  of  sense  that  was  sufficient  to 
make  him  conscious  of  a  vacancy,  which  the  poor  fel 
low,  all  his  life  long,  had  mistily  sought  to  fill  up  with 
intelligence,  wandering  up  and  down  the  streets,  and 
groaning  miserably  because  his  attempts  were  ineffee 


328  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

tual.  The  only  lady  in  the  hall  was  one  who  had 
fallen  short  of  absolute  and  perfect  beauty,  merely 
by  the  trifling  defect  of  a  slight  cast  in  her  left  eye. 
But  this  blemish,  minute  as  it  was,  so  shocked  the 
pure  ideal  of  her  soul,  rather  than  her  vanity,  that 
she  passed  her  life  in  solitude,  and  veiled  her  coun 
tenance  even  from  her  own  gaze.  So  the  skeleton  sat 
shrouded  at  one  end  of  the  table  and  this  poor  lady 
at  the  other. 

One  other  guest  remains  to  be  described.  He  was 
a  young  man  of  smooth  brow,  fair  cheek,  and  fash 
ionable  mien.  So  far  as  his  exterior  developed  him, 
he  might  much  more  suitably  have  found  a  place  at 
some  merry  Christmas  table,  than  have  been  num 
bered  among  the  blighted,  fate  -  stricken,  fancy -tor 
tured  set  of  ill-starred  banqueters.  Murmurs  arose 
among  the  guests  as  they  noted  the  glance  of  general 
scrutiny  which  the  intruder  threw  over  his  compan 
ions.  What  had  he  to  do  among  them  ?  Why  did 
not  the  skeleton  of  the  dead  founder  of  the  feast  un 
bend  its  rattling  joints,  arise,  and  motion  the  unwel 
come  stranger  from  the  board  ? 

"  Shameful ! "  said  the  morbid  man,  while  a  new 
ulcer  broke  out  in  his  heart.  "  He  comes  to  mock  us, 
—  we  shall  be  the  jest  of  his  tavern  friends  !  —  he  will 
make  a  farce  of  our  miseries,  and  bring  it  out  upon  the 


"  Oh,  never  mind  him  !  "  said  the  hypochondriac, 
smiling  sourly.  "  He  shall  feast  from  yonder  tureen 
of  viper  soup ;  and  if  there  is  a  fricassee  of  scorpions 
on  the  table,  pray  let  him  have  his  share  of  it.  For 
the  dessert,  he  shall  taste  the  apples  of  Sodom.  Then, 
if  he  like  our  Christmas  fare,  let  him  return  again 
next  year  I " 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  329 

"  Trouble  him  not,"  murmured  the  melancholy  man, 
with  gentleness.  "  What  matters  it  whether  the  con 
sciousness  of  misery  come  a  few  years  sooner  or  later  ? 
If  this  youth  deem  himself  happy  now,  yet  let  him  sit 
with  us  for  the  sake  of  the  wretchedness  to  come." 

The  poor  idiot  approached  the  young  man  with  that 
mournful  aspect  of  vacant  inquiry  which  his  face  con 
tinually  wore,  and  which  caused  people  to  say  that  he 
was  always  in  search  of  his  missing  wits.  After  no 
little  examination  he  touched  the  stranger's  hand,  but 
immediately  drew  back  his  own,  shaking  his  head  and 
shivering. 

"  Cold,  cold,  cold  !  "  muttered  the  idiot. 

The  young  man  shivered  too,  and  smiled. 

"  Gentlemen,  —  and  you,  madam,"  —  said  one  of  the 
stewards  of  the  festival,  "  do  not  conceive  so  ill  either 
of  our  caution  or  judgment  as  to  imagine  that  we  have 
admitted  this  young  stranger  —  Gervayse  Hastings  by 
name — without  a  full  investigation  and  thoughtful 
balance  of  his  claims.  Trust  me,  not  a  guest  at  the 
table  is  better  entitled  to  his  seat." 

The  steward's  guaranty  was  perforce  satisfactory. 
The  company,  therefore,  took  their  places  and  ad 
dressed  themselves  to  the  serious  business  of  the  feast, 
but  were  soon  disturbed  by  the  hypochondriac,  who 
thrust  back  his  chair  complaining  that  a  dish  of 
stewed  toads  and  vipers  was  set  before  him,  and  that 
there  was  green  ditch  water  in  his  cup  of  wine.  This 
mistake  being  amended,  he  quietly  resumed  his  seat. 
The  wine,  as  it  flowed  freely  from  the  sepulchral  urn, 
seemed  to  come  imbued  with  all  gloomy  inspirations ; 
so  that  its  influence  was  not  to  cheer,  but  either  to 
sink  the  revellers  into  a  deeper  melancholy  or  ele 
vate  their  spirits  to  an  enthusiasm  of  wretchedness. 


330  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

The  conversation  was  various.  They  told  sad  stories 
about  people  who  might  have  been  worthy  guests  at 
such  a  festival  as  the  present.  They  talked  of  grisly 
incidents  in  human  history ;  of  strange  crimes,  which, 
if  truly  considered,  were  but  convulsions  of  agony ; 
of  some  lives  that  had  been  altogether  wretched,  and 
of  others,  which,  wearing  a  general  semblance  of  hap 
piness,  had  yet  been  deformed  sooner  or  later  by 
misfortune,  as  by  the  intrusion  of  a  grim  face  at  a 
banquet ;  of  death-bed  scenes,  and  what  dark  inti 
mations  might  be  gathered  from  the  words  of  dying 
men ;  of  suicide,  and  whether  the  more  eligible  mode 
were  by  halter,  knife,  poison,  drowning,  gradual  star 
vation,  or  the  fumes  of  charcoal.  The  majority  of 
the  guests,  as  is  the  custom  with  people  thoroughly 
and  profoundly  sick  at  heart,  were  anxious  to  make 
their  own  woes  the  theme  of  discussion,  and  prove 
themselves  most  excellent  in  anguish.  The  misanthro 
pist  went  deep  into  the  philosophy  of  evil,  and  wan 
dered  about  in  the  darkness,  with  now  and  then  a 
gleam  of  discolored  light  hovering  on  ghastly  shapes 
and  horrid  scenery.  Many  a  miserable  thought,  such 
as  men  have  stumbled  upon  from  age  to  age,  did  he 
now  rake  up  again,  and  gloat  over  it  as  an  inestima 
ble  gem,  a  diamond,  a  treasure  far  preferable  to  those 
bright,  spiritual  revelations  of  a  better  world,  which 
are  like  precious  stones  from  heaven's  pavement.  And 
then,  amid  his  lore  of  wretchedness  he  hid  his  face 
and  wept. 

It  was  a  festival  at  which  the  woful  man  of  Uz 
might  suitably  have  been  a  guest,  together  with  all, 
in  each  succeeding  age,  who  have  tasted  deepest  of  the 
bitterness  of  life.  And  be  it  said,  too,  that  every  son 
or  daughter  of  woman,  however  favored  with  happy 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  331 

fortune,  might,  at  one  sad  moment  or  another,  have 
claimed  the  privilege  of  a  stricken  heart,  to  sit  down 
at  this  table.  But,  throughout  the  feast,  it  was  re 
marked  that  the  young  stranger,  Gervayse  Hastings, 
was  unsuccessful  in  his  attempts  to  catch  its  pervad 
ing  spirit.  At  any  deep,  strong  thought  that  found 
utterance,  and  which  was  torn  out,  as  it  were,  from  the 
saddest  recesses  of  human  consciousness,  he  looked 
mystified  and  bewildered ;  even  more  than  the  poor 
idiot,  who  seemed  to  grasp  at  such  things  with  his 
earnest  heart,  and  thus  occasionally  to  comprehend 
them.  The  young  man's  conversation  was  of  a  colder 
and  lighter  kind,  often  brilliant,  but  lacking  the  pow 
erful  characteristics  of  a  nature  that  had  been  devel 
oped  by  suffering. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  misanthropist,  bluntly,  in  reply  to 
some  observation  by  Gervayse  Hastings,  "  pray  do  not 
address  me  again.  We  have  no  right  to  talk  together. 
Our  minds  have  nothing  in  common.  By  what  claim 
you  appear  at  this  banquet  I  cannot  guess ;  but  me- 
thinks,  to  a  man  who  could  say  what  you  have  just 
now  said,  my  companions  and  myself  must  seem  no 
more  than  shadows  flickering  on  the  wall.  And  pre 
cisely  such  a  shadow  are  you  to  us." 

The  young  man  smiled  and  bowed,  but  drawing 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  he  buttoned  his  coat  over 
his  breast,  as  if  the  banqueting  hall  were  growing 
chill.  Again  the  idiot  fixed  his  melancholy  stare  upon 
the  youth  and  murmured,  "  Cold,  cold,  cold  !  " 

The  banquet  drew  to  its  conclusion,  and  the  guests 
departed.  Scarcely  had  they  stepped  across  the  thresh 
old  of  the  hall,  when  the  scene  that  had  there  passed 
seemed  like  the  vision  of  a  sick  fancy,  or  an  exhala 
tion  from  a  stagnant  heart  Now  and  then,  however, 


332          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

during  the  year  that  ensued,  these  melancholy  peo 
ple  caught  glimpses  of  one  another,  transient,  indeed, 
but  enough  to  prove  that  they  walked  the  earth  with 
the  ordinary  allotment  of  reality.  Sometimes  a  pair 
of  them  came  face  to  face,  while  stealing  through 
the  evening  twilight,  enveloped  in  their  sable  cloaks. 
Sometimes  they  casually  met  in  churchyards.  Once, 
also,  it  happened  that  two  of  the  dismal  banqueters 
mutually  started  at  recognizing  each  other  in  the  noon 
day  sunshine  of  a  crowded  street,  stalking  there  like 
ghosts  astray.  Doubtless  they  wondered  why  the  skel 
eton  did  not  come  abroad  at  noonday  too. 

But  whenever  the  necessity  of  their  affairs  compelled 
these  Christmas  guests  into  the  bustling  world,  they 
were  sure  to  encounter  the  young  man  who  had  so  un 
accountably  been  admitted  to  the  festival.  They  saw 
him  among  the  gay  and  fortunate;  they  caught  the 
sunny  sparkle  of  his  eye ;  they  heard  the  light  and 
careless  tones  of  his  voice,  and  muttered  to  themselves 
with  such  indignation  as  only  the  aristocracy  of  wretch 
edness  could  kindle  —  "  The  traitor  !  The  vile  impos 
tor  !  Providence,  in  its  own  good  time,  may  give  him 
a  right  to  feast  among  us  !  "  But  the  young  man's  un 
abashed  eye  dwelt  upon  their  gloomy  figures  as  they 
passed  him,  seeming  to  say,  perchance  with  somewhat 
of  a  sneer,  "  First  know  my  secret !  —  then,  measure 
your  claims  with  mine !  " 

The  step  of  Time  stole  onward,  and  soon  brought 
merry  Christmas  round  again,  with  glad  and  solemn 
worship  in  the  churches,  and  sports,  games,  festivals, 
and  everywhere  the  bright  face  of  Joy  beside  the 
household  fire.  Again  likewise  the  hall,  with  its  cur 
tains  of  dusky  purple,  was  illuminated  by  the  death 
torches  gleaming  on  the  sepulchral  decorations  of  the 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  333 

banquet.  The  veiled  skeleton  sat  in  state,  lifting  the 
cypress  wreath  above  its  head,  as  the  guerdon  of 
some  guest  illustrious  in  the  qualifications  which  there 
claimed  precedence.  As  the  stewards  deemed  the 
world  inexhaustible  in  misery,  and  were  desirous  of 
recognizing  it  in  all  its  forms,  they  had  not  seen  fit 
to  reassemble  the  company  of  the  former  year.  New 
faces  now  threw  their  gloom  across  the  table. 

There  was  a  man  of  nice  conscience,  who  bore  a 
blood  stain  in  his  heart — the  death  of  a  fellow -creature 
—  which,  for  his  more  exquisite  torture,  had  chanced 
with  such  a  peculiarity  of  circumstances,  that  he  could 
not  absolutely  determine  whether  his  will  had  entered 
into  the  deed  or  not.  Therefore,  his  whole  life  was 
spent  in  the  agony  of  an  inward  trial  for  murder,  with 
a  continual  sifting  of  the  details  of  his  terrible  calam 
ity,  until  his  mind  had  no  longer  any  thought,  nor  his 
soul  any  emotion,  disconnected  with  it.  There  was  a 
mother,  too  —  a  mother  once,  but  a  desolation  now  — 
who,  many  years  before,  had  gone  out  on  a  pleasure 
party,  and,  returning,  found  her  infant  smothered  in 
its  little  bed.  And  ever  since  she  had  been  tortured 
with  the  fantasy  that  her  buried  baby  lay  smothering 
in  its  coffin.  Then  there  was  an  aged  lady,  who  had 
lived  from  time  immemorial  with  a  constant  tremor 
quivering  through  her  frame.  It  was  terrible  to  dis 
cern  her  dark  shadow  tremulous  upon  the  wall ;  her 
lips,  likewise,  were  tremulous;  and  the  expression  of 
her  eye  seemed  to  indicate  that  her  soul  was  trem 
bling  too.  Owing  to  the  bewilderment  and  confu 
sion  which  made  almost  a  chaos  of  her  intellect,  it 
was  impossible  to  discover  what  dire  misfortune  had 
thus  shaken  her  nature  to  its  depths ;  so  that  the  stew 
ards  had  admitted  her  to  the  table,  not  from  any  ac- 


334          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

quaintance  with  her  history,  but  on  the  safe  testimony 
of  her  miserable  aspect.  Some  surprise  was  expressed 
at  the  presence  of  a  bluff,  red-faced  gentleman,  a  cer 
tain  Mr.  Smith,  who  had  evidently  the  fat  of  many 
a  rich  feast  within  him,  and  the  habitual  twinkle  of 
whose  eye  betrayed  a  disposition  to  break  forth  into 
uproarious  laughter  for  little  cause  or  none.  It  turned 
out,  however,  that  with  the  best  possible  flow  of  spir 
its,  our  poor  friend  was  afflicted  with  a  physical  dis 
ease  of  the  heart,  which  threatened  instant  death  on 
the  slightest  cachinnatory  indulgence,  or  even  that 
titillation  of  the  bodily  frame  produced  by  merry 
thoughts.  In  this  dilemma  he  had  sought  admit 
tance  to  the  banquet,  on  the  ostensible  plea  of  his 
irksome  and  miserable  state,  but,  in  reality,  with  the 
hope  of  imbibing  a  life-preserving  melancholy. 

A  married  couple  had  been  invited  from  a  motive 
of  bitter  humor,  it  being  well  understood  that  they 
rendered  each  other  unutterably  miserable  whenever 
they  chanced  to  meet,  and  therefore  must  necessarily 
be  fit  associates  at  the  festival.  In  contrast  with 
these  was  another  couple,  still  unmarried,  who  had 
interchanged  their  hearts  in  early  life,  but  had  been 
divided  by  circumstances  as  impalpable  as  morning 
mist,  and  kept  apart  so  long  that  their  spirits  now 
found  it  impossible  to  meet.  Therefore  yearning 
for  communion,  yet  shrinking  from  one  another  and 
choosing  none  beside,  they  felt  themselves  compan- 
ionless  in  life,  and  looked  upon  eternity  as  a  bound 
less  desert.  Next  to  the  skeleton  sat  a  mere  son  of 
earth  —  a  hunter  of  the  Exchange  —  a  gatherer  of 
shining  dust  —  a  man  whose  life's  record  was  in  his 
ledger,  and  whose  soul's  prison  house  the  vaults  of  the 
bank  where  he  kept  his  deposits.  This  person  had 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  335 

been  greatly  perplexed  at  his  invitation,  deeming 
himself  one  of  the  most  fortunate  men  in  the  city; 
but  the  stewards  persisted  in  demanding  his  presence, 
assuring  him  that  he  had  no  conception  how  miserable 
he  was. 

And  now  appeared  a  figure  which  we  must  ac 
knowledge  as  our  acquaintance  of  the  former  festi 
val.  It  was  Gervayse  Hastings,  whose  presence  had 
then  caused  so  much  question  and  criticism,  and  who 
now  took  his  place  with  the  composure  of  one  whose 
claims  were  satisfactory  to  himself  and  must  needs  be 
allowed  by  others.  Yet  his  easy  and  unruffled  face  be 
trayed  no  sorrow.  The  well-skilled  beholders  gazed  a 
moment  into  his  eyes  and  shook  their  heads,  to  miss 
the  unuttered  sympathy  —  the  countersign,  never  to  be 
falsified  —  of  those  whose  hearts  are  cavern  mouths, 
through  which  they  descend  into  a  region  of  illimita 
ble  woe  and  recognize  other  wanderers  there. 

44  Who  is  this  youth?  "  asked  the  man  with  a  blood 
stain  on  his  conscience.  "  Surely  he  has  never  gone 
down  into  the  depths  !  I  know  all  the  aspects  of  those 
who  have  passed  through  the  dark  valley.  By  what 
right  is  he  among  us  ?  " 

"  Ah,  it  is  a  sinful  thing  to  come  hither  without  a 
sorrow,"  murmured  the  aged  lady,  in  accents  that  par 
took  of  the  eternal  tremor  which  pervaded  her  whole 
being.  "  Depart,  young  man !  Your  soul  has  never 
been  shaken,  and,  therefore,  I  tremble  so  much  the 
more  to  look  at  you." 

"  His  soul  shaken  !  No  ;  I  '11  answer  for  it,"  said 
bluff  Mr.  Smith,  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  heart 
and  making  himself  as  melancholy  as  he  could,  for 
fear  of  a  fatal  explosion  of  laughter.  "  I  know  the 
lad  well ;  he  has  as  fair  prospects  as  any  young  man 


336  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

about  town,  and  has  no  more  right  among  us  miser 
able  creatures  than  the  child  unborn.  He  never  was 
miserable  and  probably  never  will  be  !  " 

"Our  honored  guests,"  interposed  the  stewards, 
"  pray  have  patience  with  us,  and  believe,  at  least, 
that  our  deep  veneration  for  the  sacredness  of  this 
solemnity  would  preclude  any  wilful  violation  of  it. 
Receive  this  young  man  to  your  table.  It  may  not 
be  too  much  to  say  that  no  guest  here  would  exchange 
his  own  heart  for  the  one  that  beats  within  that  youth 
ful  bosom ! " 

"  I  'd  call  it  a  bargain,  and  gladly  too,"  muttered 
Mr.  Smith,  with  a  perplexing  mixture  of  sadness  and 
mirthful  conceit.  "  A  plague  upon  their  nonsense ! 
My  own  heart  is  the  only  really  miserable  one  in 
the  company ;  it  will  certainly  be  the  death  of  me  at 
last!" 

Nevertheless,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  the  judg 
ment  of  the  stewards  being  without  appeal,  the  com 
pany  sat  down.  The  obnoxious  guest  made  no  more 
attempt  to  obtrude  his  conversation  on  those  about 
him,  but  appeared  to  listen  to  the  table  talk  with  pe 
culiar  assiduity,  as  if  some  inestimable  secret,  other 
wise  beyond  his  reach,  might  be  conveyed  in  a  cas 
ual  word.  And  in  truth,  to  those  who  could  under 
stand  and  value  it,  there  was  rich  matter  in  the  up- 
gushings  and  outpourings  of  these  initiated  souls  to 
whom  sorrow  had  been  a  talisman,  admitting  them 
into  spiritual  depths  which  no  other  spell  can  open. 
Sometimes  out  of  the  midst  of  densest  gloom  there 
flashed  a  momentary  radiance,  pure  as  crystal,  bright 
as  the  flame  of  stars,  and  shedding  such  a  glow  upon 
the  mysteries  of  life  that  the  guests  were  ready  to  ex 
claim,  "  Surely  the  riddle  is  on  the  point  of  being 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  337 

solved !  "  At  such  illuminated  intervals  the  saddest 
mourners  felt  it  to  be  revealed  that  mortal  griefs  are 
but  shadowy  and  external  ;  no  more  than  the  sable 
robes  voluminously  shrouding  a  certain  divine  real 
ity,  and  thus  indicating  what  might  otherwise  be  al 
together  invisible  to  mortal  eye. 

"Just  now,"  remarked  the  trembling  old  woman, 
54 1  seemed  to  see  beyond  the  outside.  And  then  my 
everlasting  tremor  passed  away  !  " 

"  Would  that  I  coidd  dwell  always  in  these  momen 
tary  gleams  of  light ! "  said  the  man  of  stricken  con 
science.  "  Then  the  blood  stain  in  my  heart  would  be 
washed  clean  away." 

This  strain  of  conversation  appeared  so  unintelli 
gibly  absurd  to  good  Mr.  Smith,  that  he  burst  into 
precisely  the  fit  of  laughter  which  his  physicians  had 
warned  him  against,  as  likely  to  prove  instantaneously 
fatal.  In  effect,  he  fell  back  in  his  chair  a  corpse, 
with  a  broad  grin  upon  his  face,  while  his  ghost, 
perchance,  remained  beside  it  bewildered  at  its  unpre 
meditated  exit.  This  catastrophe  of  course  broke  up 
the  festival. 

"How  is  this?  You  do  not  tremble ?" observed  the 
tremulous  old  woman  to  Gervayse  Hastings,  who  was 
gazing  at  the  dead  man  with  singular  intentness.  "  Is 
it  not  awful  to  see  him  so  suddenly  vanish  out  of  the 
midst  of  life —  this  man  of  flesh  and  blood,  whose 
earthly  nature  was  so  warm  and  strong  ?  There  is  a 
never-ending  tremor  in  my  soul,  but  it  trembles  afresh 
at  this  !  And  you  are  calm !  " 

"  Would  that  he  could  teach  me  somewhat  I  "  said 
Gervayse  Hastings,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "Men 
pass  before  me  like  shadows  on  the  wall ;  their  actions, 
passions,  feelings,  are  flickerings  of  the  light,  and  then 


338  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

they  vanish  !  Neither  the  corpse,  nor  yonder  skeleton, 
nor  this  old  woman's  everlasting  tremor,  can  give  me 
what  I  seek." 

And  then  the  company  departed. 

We  cannot  linger  to  narrate,  in  such  detail,  more 
circumstances   of   these  singular   festivals,  which,  in 
accordance  with  the  founder's  will,  continued  to  be 
kept  with  the  regularity  of  an  established  institutionc 
In  process  of  time  the  stewards  adopted  the  custom 
of  inviting,  from  far  and  near,  those  individuals  whose 
misfortunes  were  prominent  above   other  men's,  and 
whose  mental  and  moral  development  might,  therefore, 
be  supposed  to  possess  a  corresponding  interest.     The 
exiled  noble  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  broken 
soldier  of  the  Empire,  were  alike  represented  at  the 
table.     Fallen  monarchs,  wandering  about  the  earth, 
have  found  places  at  that  forlorn  and  miserable  feast. 
The  statesman,  when  his  party  flung  him  off,  might,  if 
he  chose  it,  be  once  more  a  great  man  for  the  space 
of  a  single  banquet.     Aaron  Burr's  name  appears  on 
the  record  at  a  period  when  his  ruin  —  the  prof ound- 
est  and  most  striking,  with  more  of  moral  circum 
stance  in  it  than  that  of  almost  any  other  man  —  was 
complete  in  his  lonely  age.      Stephen  Girard,  when 
his  wealth  weighed  upon  him  like  a  mountain,  once 
sought  admittance  of  his  own  accord.     It  is  not  prob 
able,  however,  that  these  men  had  any  lesson  to  teach 
in  the  lore  of  discontent  and  misery  which  might  not 
equally  well  have  been  studied  in  the  common  walks 
of  life.     Illustrious  unfortunates  attract  a  wider  sym 
pathy,  not  because  their  griefs  are  more  intense,  but 
because,  being  set  on  lofty  pedestals,  they  the  better 
serve  mankind  as  instances  and  by-words  of  calamity. 
It  concerns  our  present  purpose  to  say  that,  at  each 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  339 

successive  festival,  Gervayse  Hastings  showed  his  face, 
gradually  changing  from  the  smooth  beauty  of  his 
youth  to  the  thoughtful  comeliness  of  manhood,  and 
thence  to  the  bald  impressive  dignity  of  age.  He  was 
the  only  individual  invariably  present.  Yet  on  every 
occasion  there  were  murmurs,  both  from  those  who 
knew  his  character  and  position,  and  from  them  whose 
hearts  shrank  back  as  denying  his  companionship  in 
their  mystic  fraternity. 

"  Who  is  this  impassive  man  ?  "  had  been  asked  a 
hundred  times.  "  Has  he  suffered  ?  Has  he  sinned  ? 
There  are  no  traces  of  either.  Then  wherefore  is  he 
here  ?  " 

"  You  must  inquire  of  the  stewards,  or  of  himself," 
was  the  constant  reply.  "  We  seem  to  know  him  well 
here  in  our  city,  and  know  nothing  of  him  but  what  is 
creditable  and  fortunate.  Yet  hither  he  comes,  year 
after  year,  to  this  gloomy  banquet,  and  sits  among 
the  guests  like  a  marble  statue.  Ask  yonder  skele 
ton  ;  perhaps  that  may  solve  the  riddle." 

It  was  in  truth  a  wonder.  The  life  of  Gervayse 
Hastings  was  not  merely  a  prosperous,  but  a  brilliant 
one.  Everything  had  gone  well  with  him.  He  was 
wealthy,  far  beyond  the  expenditure  that  was  required 
by  habits  of  magnificence,  a  taste  of  rare  purity  and 
cultivation,  a  love  of  travel,  a  scholar's  instinct  to  col 
lect  a  splendid  library,  and,  moreover,  what  seemed  a 
magnificent  liberality  to  the  distressed.  He  had  sought 
happiness,  and  not  vainly,  if  a  lovely  and  tender  wife 
and  children  of  fair  promise  could  insure  it.  He  had, 
besides,  ascended  above  the  limit  which  separates  the 
obscure  from  the  distinguished,  and  had  won  a  stain 
less  reputation  in  affairs  of  the  widest  public  impor 
tance.  Not  that  he  was  a  popular  character,  or  had 


340  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

within  him  the  mysterious  attributes  which  are  essen 
tial  to  that  species  of  success.     To  the  public  he  was 

/  a  cold  abstraction,  wholly  destitute  of  those  rich  hues 
of  personality,  that  living  warmth,  and  the  peculiar 
faculty  of  stamping  his  own  heart's  impression  on  a 
multitude  of  hearts  by  which  the  people  recognize 
their  favorites.  And  it  must  be  owned  that,  after  his 
most  intimate  associates  had  done  their  best  to  know 
him  thoroughly  and  love  him  warmly,  they  were  star 
tled  to  find  how  little  hold  he  had  upon  their  affec 
tions.  They  approved,  they  admired,  but  still  in  those 
moments  when  the  human  spirit  most  craves  reality 
they  shrank  back  from  Gervayse  Hastings,  as  power 
less  to  give  them  what  they  sought.  It  was  the  feel 
ing  of  distrustful  regret  with  which  we  should  draw 
back  the  hand  after  extending  it,  in  an  illusive  twi 
light,  to  grasp  the  hand  of  a  shadow  upon  the  wall. 

As  the  superficial  fervency  of  youth  decayed,  this 
peculiar  effect  of  Gervayse  Hastings' s  character  grew 
more  perceptible.  His  children,  when  he  extended  his 

[  arms,  came  coldly  to  his  knees,  but  never  climbed  them 
of  their  own  accord.  His  wife  wept  secretly,  and  al 
most  adjudged  herself  a  criminal,  because  she  shivered 
in  the  chill  of  his  bosom.  He,  too,  occasionally  ap 
peared  not  unconscious  of  the  dullness  of  his  moral 
atmosphere,  and  willing,  if  it  might  be  so,  to  warm 
himself  at  a  kindly  fire.  But  age  stole  onward  and 
benumbed  him  more  and  more.  As  the  hoarfrost  be 
gan  to  gather  on  him  his  wife  went  to  her  grave,  and 
was  doubtless  warmer  there  ;  his  children  either  died 
or  were  scattered  to  different  homes  of  their  own ;  and 
old  Gervayse  Hastings,  unscathed  by  grief  —  alone, 
but  needing  no  companionship,  continued  his  steady 
walk  through  life,  and  still  on  every  Christinas  day 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  341 

attended  at  the  dismal  banquet.  His  privilege  as  a 
guest  had  become  prescriptive  now.  Had  he  claimed 
the  head  of  the  table,  even  the  skeleton  would  have 
been  ejected  from  its  seat. 

Finally,  at  the  merry  Christmas  tide,  when  he  had 
numbered  fourscore  years  complete,  this  pale,  high- 
browed,  marble-featured  old  man  once  more  entered 
the  long-frequented  hall,  with  the  same  impassive  as 
pect  that  had  called  forth  so  much  dissatisfied  remark 
at  his  first  attendance.  Time,  except  in  matters 
merely  external,  had  done  nothing  for  him,  either  of 
good  or  evil.  As  he  took  his  place  he  threw  a  calm, 
inquiring  glance  around  the  table,  as  if  to  ascertain 
whether  any  guest  had  yet  appeared,  after  so  many 
unsuccessful  banquets,  who  might  impart  to  him  the  I 
mystery — the  deep,  warm  secret  —  the  life  within  the) 
life  —  which,  whether  manifested  in  joy  or  sorrow,  is 
what  gives  substance  to  a  world  of  shadows. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Gervayse  Hastings,  assuming  a 
position  which  his  long  conversance  with  the  festival 
caused  to  appear  natural,  "  you  are  welcome !  I  drink 
to  you  all  in  this  cup  of  sepulchral  wine." 

The  guests  replied  courteously,  but  still  in  a  manner 
that  proved  them  unable  to  receive  the  old  man  as  a 
member  of  their  sad  fraternity.  It  may  be  well  to 
give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  present  company  at  the 
banquet. 

One  was  formerly  a  clergyman,  enthusiastic  in  his 
profession,  and  apparently  of  the  genuine  dynasty  of 
those  old  Puritan  divines  whose  faith  in  their  calling, 
and  stern  exercise  of  it,  had  placed  them  among  the 
mighty  of  the  earth.  But,  yielding  to  the  speculative 
tendency  of  the  age,  he  had  gone  astray  from  the  firm 
foundation  of  an  ancient  faith,  and  wandered  into  a 


342          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

cloud  region,  where  everything  was  misty  and  decep 
tive,  ever  mocking  him  with  a  semblance  of  reality, 
but  still  dissolving  when  he  flung  himself  upon  it  f o* 
support  and  rest.  His  instinct  and  early  training  de 
manded  something  steadfast ;  but,  looking  forward,  he 
beheld  vapors  piled  on  vapors,  and  behind  him  an  im 
passable  gulf  between  the  man  of  yesterday  and  to 
day,  on  the  borders  of  which  he  paced  to  and  fro, 
sometimes  wringing  his  hands  in  agony,  and  often 
making  his  own  woe  a  theme  of  scornful  merriment. 
This  surely  was  a  miserable  man.  Next  there  was 
a  theorist  —  one  of  a  numerous  tribe,  although  he 
deemed  himself  unique  since  the  creation  —  a  theorist 
who  had  conceived  a  plan,  by  which  all  the  wretched 
ness  of  earth,  moral  and  physical,  might  be  done  away, 
and  the  bliss  of  the  millennium  at  once  accomplished. 
But,  the  incredulity  of  mankind  debarring  him  from 
action,  he  was  smitten  with  as  much  grief  as  if  the 
whole  mass  of  woe  which  he  was  denied  the  opportu 
nity  to  remedy  were  crowded  into  his  own  bosom.  A 
plain  old  man  in  black  attracted  much  of  the  compa 
ny's  notice,  on  the  supposition  that  he  was  no  other 
than  Father  Miller,  who,  it  seemed,  had  given  himself 
up  to  despair  at  the  tedious  delay  of  the  final  confla 
gration.  Then  there  was  a  man  distinguished  for  na 
tive  pride  and  obstinacy,  who,  a  little  while  before, 
had  possessed  immense  wealth,  and  held  the  control 
of  a  vast  moneyed  interest  which  he  had  wielded  in 
the  same  spirit  as  a  despotic  monarch  would  wield  the 
power  of  his  empire,  carrying  on  a  tremendous  moral 
warfare,  the  roar  and  tremor  of  which  was  felt  at  every 
fireside  in  the  land.  At  length  came  a  crushing  ruin 

—  a  total  overthrow  of  fortune,  power,  and  character 

—  the  effect  of  which  on  his  imperious,  and,  in  many 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  343 

respects,  noble  and  lofty  nature,  might  have  entitled 
him  to  a  place,  not  merely  at  our  festival,  but  among 
the  peers  of  Pandemonium. 

There  was  a  modern  philanthropist,  who  had  become 
so  deeply  sensible  of  the  calamities  of  thousands  and 
millions  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  of  the  impractica- 
bleness  of  any  general  measures  for  their  relief,  that 
he  had  no  heart  to  do  what  little  good  lay  immediately 
within  his  power,  but  contented  himself  with  being  mis 
erable  for  sympathy.  Near  him  sat  a  gentleman  in  a 
predicament  hitherto  unprecedented,  but  of  which  the 
present  epoch  probably  affords  numerous  examples. 
Ever  since  he  was  of  capacity  to  read  a  newspaper, 
this  person  had  prided  himself  on  his  consistent  ad 
herence  to  one  political  party,  but,  in  the  confusion  of 
these  latter  days,  had  got  bewildered  and  knew  not 
whereabouts  his  party  was.  This  wretched  condition, 
so  morally  desolate  and  disheartening  to  a  man  who 
has  long  accustomed  himself  to  merge  his  individu 
ality  in  the  mass  of  a  great  body,  can  only  be  con 
ceived  by  such  as  have  experienced  it.  His  next  com 
panion  was  a  popular  orator  who  had  lost  his  voice, 
and  __  as  it  was  pretty  much  all  that  he  had  to  lose  — 
had  fallen  into  a  state  of  hopeless  melancholy.  The 
table  was  likewise  graced  by  two  of  the  gentler  sex : 
one,  a  half-starved,  consumptive  seamstress,  the  repre 
sentative  of  thousands  just  as  wretched ;  the  other,  a 
woman  of  unemployed  energy,  who  found  herself  in 
the  world  with  nothing  to  achieve,  nothing  to  enjoy, 
and  nothing  even  to  suffer.  She  had,  therefore, 
driven  herself  to  the  verge  of  madness  by  dark  brood- 
ings  over  the  wrongs  of  her  sex,  and  its  exclusion 
from  a  proper  field  of  action.  The  roll  of  guests 
being  thus  complete,  a  side  table  had  been  set  for 


344          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

three  or  four  disappointed  office  seekers,  with  hearts 
as  sick  as  death,  whom  the  stewards  had  admitted 
partly  because  their  calamities  really  entitled  them 
to  entrance  here,  and  partly  that  they  were  in  especial 
need  of  a  good  dinner.  There  was  likewise  a  home 
less  dog,  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  licking  up  the 
crumbs  and  gnawing  the  fragments  of  the  feast,  — 
such  a  melancholy  cur  as  one  sometimes  sees  about 
the  streets  without  a  master,  and  willing  to  follow  the 
first  that  will  accept  his  service. 

In  their  own  way,  these  were  as  wretched  a  set  of 
people  as  ever  had  assembled  at  the  festival.  There 
they  sat,  with  the  veiled  skeleton  of  the  founder  hold 
ing  aloft  the  cypress  wreath  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
and  at  the  other,  wrapped  in  furs,  the  withered  figure 
of  Gervayse  Hastings,  stately,  calm,  and  cold,  im 
pressing  the  company  with  awe,  yet  so  little  interest 
ing  their  sympathy  that  he  might  have  vanished  into 
thin  air  without  their  once  exclaiming,  "  Whither  is 
he  gone?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  philanthropist,  addressing  the  old 
man,  "  you  have  been  so  long  a  guest  at  this  annual 
festival,  and  have  thus  been  conversant  with  so  many 
varieties  of  human  affliction,  that,  not  improbably,  you 
have  thence  derived  some  great  and  important  les 
sons.  How  blessed  were  your  lot  could  you  reveal  a 
secret  by  which  all  this  mass  of  woe  might  be  re 
moved  !  " 

"  I  know  of  but  one  misfortune,"  answered  Gervayse 
Hastings,  quietly,  "  and  that  is  my  own." 

"  Your  own  !  "  rejoined  the  philanthropist.  "  And 
looking  back  on  your  serene  and  prosperous  life,  how 
can  you  claim  to  be  the  sole  unfortunate  of  the  human 
race?" 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BANQUET.  345 

"You  will  not  understand  it,"  replied  Gervayse 
Hastings,  feebly,  and  with  a  singular  inefficiency  of 
pronunciation,  and  sometimes  putting  one  word  for 
another.  "  None  have  understood  it  —  not  even  those 
who  experience  the  like.  It  is  a  chilliness  —  a  want 
of  earnestness  —  a  feeling  as  if  what  should  be  my 
heart  were  a  thing  of  vapor  —  a  haunting  perception 
of  unreality !  Thus  seeming  to  possess  all  that  other 
men  have  —  all  that  men  aim  at  —  I  have  really  pos 
sessed  nothing,  neither  joy  nor  griefs.  All  things,  all 
persons  —  as  was  truly  said  to  me  at  this  table  long 
and  long  ago  —  have  been  like  shadows  flickering  on 
the  wall.  It  was  so  with  my  wife  and  children  — 
with  those  who  seemed  my  friends  :  it  is  so  with  your 
selves,  whom  I  see  now  before  me.  Neither  have  I 
myself  any  real  existence,  but  am  a  shadow  like  the 
rest." 

"  And  how  is  it  with  your  views  of  a  future  life  ?  " 
inquired  the  speculative  clergyman. 

"  Worse  than  with  you,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a 
hollow  and  feeble  tone  ;  "  for  I  cannot  conceive  it 
earnestly  enough  to  feel  either  hope  or  fear.  Mine 
—  mine  is  the  wetchedness  !  This  cold  heart  —  this 
unreal  life !  Ah  !  it  grows  colder  still." 

It  so  chanced  that  at  this  juncture  the  decayed 
ligaments  of  the  skeleton  gave  way,  and  the  dry 
bones  fell  together  in  a  heap,  thus  causing  the  dusty 
wreath  of  cypress  to  drop  upon  the  table.  The  atten 
tion  of  the  company  being  thus  diverted  for  a  single 
instant  from  Gervayse  Hastings,  they  perceived,  on 
turning  again  towards  him,  that  the  old  man  had 
undergone  a  change.  His  shadow  had  ceased  to 
flicker  on  the  wall. 


346          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Well,  Rosina,  what  is  your  criticism  ? "  asked 
Roderick  as  he  rolled  up  the  manuscript. 

"  Frankly,  your  success  is  by  no  means  complete," 
replied  she.  "  It  is  true,  I  have  an  idea  of  the  charac 
ter  you  endeavor  to  describe ;  but  it  is  rather  by  dint 
of  my  own  thought  than  your  expression." 

"  That  is  unavoidable,"  observed  the  sculptor,  "  be 
cause  the  characteristics  are  all  negative.  If  Gervayse 
Hastings  could  have  imbibed  one  human  grief  at  the 
gloomy  banquet,  the  task  of  describing  him  would 
have  been  infinitely  easier.  Of  such  persons  —  and 
we  do  meet  with  these  moral  monsters  now  and  then 
—  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  now  they  came  to  exist 
here,  or  what  there  is  in  them  capable  of  existence 
hereafter.  They  seem  to  be  on  the  outside  of  every 
thing  ;  and  nothing  wearies  the  soul  more  than  an 
attempt  to  comprehend  them  within  its  grasp." 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE. 

ONE  sunshiny  morning,  in  the  good  old  times  of  the 
town  of  Boston,  a  young  carver  in  wood,  well  known 
by  the  name  of  Drowne,  stood  contemplating  a  large 
oaken  log,  which  it  was  his  purpose  to  convert  into 
the  figure-head  of  a  vessel.  And  while  he  discussed 
within  his  own  mind  what  sort  of  shape  or  similitude 
it  were  well  to  bestow  upon  this  excellent  piece  of 
timber,  there  came  into  Drowne' s  workshop  a  cer 
tain  Captain  Hunnewell,  owner  and  commander  of 
the  good  brig  called  the  Cynosure,  which  had  just 
returned  from  her  first  voyage  to  Fayal. 

"  Ah !  that  will  do,  Drowne,  that  will  do  !  "  cried 
the  jolly  captain,  tapping  the  log  with  his  rattan.  "  I 
bespeak  this  very  piece  of  oak  for  the  figure-head  of 
the  Cynosure.  She  has  shown  herself  the  sweetest 
craft  that  ever  floated,  and  I  mean  to  decorate  her 
prow  with  the  handsomest  image  that  the  skill  of  man 
can  cut  out  of  timber.  And,  Drowne,  you  are  the 
fellow  to  execute  it." 

"  You  give  me  more  credit  than  I  deserve,  Captain 
Hunnewell,"  said  the  carver,  modestly,  yet  as  one  con 
scious  of  eminence  in  his  art.  "But,  for  the  sake 
of  the  good  brig,  I  stand  ready  to  do  my  best.  And 
which  of  these  designs  do  you  prefer  ?  Here,"  — 
pointing  to  a  staring,  half-length  figure,  in  a  white 
wig  and  scarlet  coat,  —  "  here  is  an  excellent  model, 
the  likeness  of  our  gracious  king.  Here  is  the  valiant 
Admiral  Vernon.  Or,  if  you  prefer  a  female  figure, 
what  say  you  to  Britannia  with  the  trident  ?  " 


348          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  All  very  fine,  Drowne ;  all  very  fine,"  answered 
the  mariner.  "  But  as  nothing  like  the  brig  ever 
swam  the  ocean,  so  I  am  determined  she  shall  have 
such  a  figure-head  as  old  Neptune  never  saw  in  his 
life.  And  what  is  more,  as  there  is  a  secret  in  the 
matter,  you  must  pledge  your  credit  not  to  betray  it." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Drowne,  marvelling,  however,  what 
possible  mystery  there  could  be  in  reference  to  an  af 
fair  so  open,  of  necessity,  to  the  inspection  of  all  the 
world  as  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel.  "  You  may  de 
pend,  captain,  on  my  being  as  secret  as  the  nature  of 
the  case  will  permit." 

Captain  Hunnewell  then  took  Drowne  by  the  but 
ton,  and  communicated  his  wishes  in  so  low  a  tone 
that  it  would  be  unmannerly  to  repeat  what  was  evi 
dently  intended  for  the  carver's  private  ear.  We 
shall,  therefore,  take  the  opportunity  to  give  the  reader 
a  few  desirable  particulars  about  Drowne  himself. 

He  was  the  first  American  who  is  known  to  have  at 
tempted  —  in  a  very  humble  line,  it  is  true  —  that  art 
in  which  we  can  now  reckon  so  many  names  already 
distinguished,  or  rising  to  distinction.  From  his  ear 
liest  boyhood  he  had  exhibited  a  knack  —  for  it  would 
be  too  proud  a  word  to  call  it  genius  —  a  knack,  there 
fore,  for  the  imitation  of  the  human  figure  in  what 
ever  material  came  most  readily  to  hand.  The  snows 
of  a  New  England  winter  had  often  supplied  him  with 
a  species  of  marble  as  dazzingly  white,  at  least,  as  the 
Parian  or  the  Carrara,  and  if  less  durable,  yet  suffi 
ciently  so  to  correspond  with  any  claims  to  permanent 
existence  possessed  by  the  boy's  frozen  statues.  Yet 
they  won  admiration  from  maturer  judges  than  his 
school  -  fellows,  and  were  indeed,  remarkably  clever, 
though  destitute  of  the  native  warmth  that  might 


DROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  349 

have  made  the  snow  melt  beneath  his  hand.  As  he 
advanced  in  life,  the  young  man  adopted  pine  and  oak 
as  eligible  materials  for.  the  display  of  his  skill,  which 
now  began  to  bring  him  a  return  of  solid  silver  as  well 
as  the  empty  praise  that  had  been  an  apt  reward 
enough  for  his  productions  of  evanescent  snow.  He 
became  noted  for  carving  ornamental  pump  heads, 
and  wooden  urns  for  gate  posts,  and  decorations, 
more  grotesque  than  fanciful,  for  mantelpieces.  No 
apothecary  would  have  deemed  himself  in  the  way  of 
obtaining  custom  without  setting  up  a  gilded  mortar, 
if  not  a  head  of  Galen  or  Hippocrates,  from  the  skil 
ful  hand  of  Drowne. 

But  the  great  scope  of  his  business  lay  in  the  manu 
facture  of  .figure-heads  for  vessels.  Whether  it  were 
the  monarch  himself,  or  some  famous  British  admiral 
or  general,  or  the  governor  of  the  province,  or  per 
chance  the  favorite  daughter  of  the  ship-owner,  there 
the  image  stood  above  the  prow,  decked  out  in  gor 
geous  colors,  magnificently  gilded,  and  staring  the 
whole  world  out  of  countenance,  as  if  from  an  innate 
consciousness  of  its  own  superiority.  These  specimens 
of  native  sculpture  had  crossed  the  sea  in  all  direc 
tions,  and  been  not  ignobly  noticed  among  the  crowded 
shipping  of  the  Thames  and  wherever  else  the  hardy 
mariners  of  New  England  had  pushed  their  adven 
tures.  It  must  be  confessed  that  a  family  likeness 
pervaded  these  respectable  progeny  of  Drowne's  skill ; 
that  the  benign  countenance  of  the  king  resembled 
those  of  his  subjects,  and  that  Miss  Peggy  Hobart,  the 
merchant's  daughter,  bore  a  remarkable  similitude  to 
Britannia,  Victory,  and  other  ladies  of  the  allegoric 
sisterhood;  and,  finally,  that  they  all  had  a  kind  of 
wooden  aspect  which  proved  an  intimate  relationship 


350          MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

with  the  unshaped  blocks  of  timber  in  the  carver's 
workshop.  But  at  least  there  was  no  inconsiderable 
skill  of  hand,  nor  a  deficiency  of  any  attribute  to  ren 
der  them  really  works  of  art,  except  that  deep  qual 
ity,  be  it  of  soul  or  intellect,  which  bestows  life  upon 
the  lifeless  and  warmth  upon  the  cold,  and  which,  had 
it  been  present,  would  have  made  Drowne's  wooden 
image  instinct  with  spirit. 

The  captain  of  the  Cynosure  had  now  finished  his 
instructions. 

"  And  Drowne,"  said  he,  impressively,  "  you  must 
lay  aside  all  other  business  and  set  about  this  forth 
with.  And  as  to  the  price,  only  do  the  job  in  first- 
rate  style,  and  you  shall  settle  that  point  yourself." 

"Very  well,  captain,"  answered  the  carver,  who 
looked  grave  and  somewhat  perplexed,  yet  had  a  sort 
of  smile  upon  his  visage ;  "  depend  upon  it,  I.  '11  do  my 
utmost  to  satisfy  you." 

From  that  moment  the  men  of  taste  about  Long 
Wharf  and  the  Town  Dock  who  were  wont  to  show 
their  love  for  the  arts  by  frequent  visits  to  Drowne's 
workshop,  and  admiration  of  his  wooden  images,  be 
gan  to  be  sensible  of  a  mystery  in  the  carver's  con 
duct.  Often  he  was  absent  in  the  daytime.  Some 
times,  as  might  be  judged  by  gleams  of  light  from  the 
shop  windows,  he  was  at  work  until  a  late  hour  of  the 
evening ;  although  neither  knock  nor  voice,  on  such 
occasions,  could  gain  admittance  for  a  visitor,  or  elicit 
any  word  of  response.  Nothing  remarkable,  however, 
was  observed  in  the  shop  at  those  hours  when  it  was 
thrown  open.  A  fine  piece  of  timber,  indeed,  which 
Drowne  was  known  to  have  reserved  for  some  work 
of  especial  dignity,  was  seen  to  be  gradually  assuming 
shape.  What  shape  it  was  destined  ultimately  to  take 


DROWNE' S   WOODEN  IMAGE.  351 

was  a  problem  to  his  friends  and  a  point  on  which  the 
carver  himself  preserved  a  rigid  silence.  But  day  af 
ter  day,  though  Drowne  was  seldom  noticed  in  the  act 
of  working  upon  it,  this  rude  form  began  to  be  devel 
oped  until  it  became  evident  to  all  observers  that  a 
female  figure  was  growing  into  mimic  life.  At  each 
new  visit  they  beheld  a  larger  pile  of  wooden  chips 
and  a  nearer  approximation  to  something  beautiful. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hamadryad  of  the  oak  had  shel 
tered  herself  from  the  unimaginative  world  within  the 
heart  of  her  native  tree,  and  that  it  was  only  necessary 
to' remove  the  strange  shapelessness  that  had  incrusted 
her,  and  reveal  the  grace  and  loveliness  of  a  divinity. 
Imperfect  as  the  design,  the  attitude,  the  costume,  and 
especially  the  face  of  the  image  still  remained,  there 
was  already  an  effect  that  drew  the  eye  from  the  wooden 
cleverness  of  Drowne's  earlier  productions  and  fixed  it 
upon  the  tantalizing  mystery  of  this  new  project. 

Copley,  the  celebrated  painter,  then  a  young  man 
and  a  resident  of  Boston,  came  one  day  to  visit  Drowne ; 
for  he  had  recognized  so  much  of  moderate  ability  in 
the  carver  as  to  induce  him,  in  the  dearth  of  profes 
sional  sympathy,  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance.  On 
entering  the  shop,  the  artist  glanced  at  the  inflexible 
image  of  king,  commander,  dame,  and  allegory,  that 
stood  around,  on  the  best  of  which  might  have  been 
bestowed  the  questionable  praise  that  it  looked  as  if  a 
living  man  had  here  been  changed  to  wood,  and  that 
not  only  the  physical,  but  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
part,  partook  of  the  stolid  transformation.  But  in  not 
a  single  instance  did  it  seem  as  if  the  wood  were  im 
bibing  the  ethereal  essence  of  humanity.  What  a  wide 
distinction  is  here !  and  how  far  would  the  slightest 
portion  of  the  latter  merit  have  outvalued  the  utmost 
degree  of  the  former  I 


852          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  My  friend  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  smiling  to  him* 
self,  but  alluding  to  the  mechanical  and  wooden  clever 
ness  that  so  invariably  distinguished  the  images,  "  you 
are  really  a  remarkable  person  !  I  have  seldom  met 
with  a  man  in  your  line  of  business  that  could  do  so 
much  ;  for  one  other  touch  might  make  this  figure  of 
General  Wolfe,  for  instance,  a  breathing  and  intelli 
gent  human  creature." 

"  You  would  have  me  think  that  you  are  praising  me 
highly,  Mr.  Copley,"  answered  Drowne,  turning  his 
back  upon  Wolfe's  image  in  apparent  disgust.  "  But 
there  has  come  a  light  into  my  mind.  I  know,  what 
you  know  as  well,  that  the  one  touch  which  you  speak 
of  as  deficient  is  the  only  one  that  would  be  truly  val 
uable,  and  that  without  it  these  works  of  mine  are  no 
better  than  worthless  abortions.  There  is  the  same 
difference  between  them  and  the  works  of  an  inspired 
artist  as  between  a  sign-post  daub  and  one  of  your 
best  pictures." 

"  This  is  strange,"  cried  Copley,  looking  him  in  the 
face,  which  now,  as  the  painter  fancied,  had  a  singular 
depth  of  intelligence,  though  hitherto  it  had  not  given 
him  greatly  the  advantage  over  his  own  family  of 
wooden  images.  "  What  has  come  over  you  ?  How 
is  it  that,  possessing  the  idea  which  you  have  now  ut 
tered,  you  should  produce  only  such  works  as  these  ?  " 

The  carver  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  Copley 
turned  again  to  the  images,  conceiving  that  the  sense 
of  deficiency  which  Drowne  had  just  expressed,  and 
which  is  so  rare  in  a  merely  mechanical  character, 
must  surely  imply  a  genius,  the  tokens  of  which  had 
heretofore  been  overlooked.  But  no ;  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  it.  He  was  about  to  withdraw  when  his  eyes 
chanced  to  fall  upon  a  half -developed  figure  which  lay 


DROWNE'S   WOODEN  IMAGE.  353 

in  a  corner  of  the  workshop,  surrounded  by  scattered 
chips  of  oak.  It  arrested  him  at  once. 

"  What  is  here  ?  Who  has  done  this  ?  "  he  broke 
out,  after  contemplating  it  in  speechless  astonishment 
for  an  instant.  "  Here  is  the  divine,  the  life-giving 
touch.  What  inspired  hand  is  beckoning  this  wood 
to  arise  and  live?  Whose  work  is  this?  " 

"No  man's  work,"  replied  Drowne.  "The  figure 
lies  within  that  block  of  oak,  and  it  is  my  business  to 
find  it." 

"  Drowne,"  said  the  true  artist,  grasping  the  carver 
fervently  by  the  hand,  "  you  are  a  man  of  genius !  " 

As  Copley  departed,  happening  to  glance  backward 
from  the  threshold,  he  beheld  Drowne  bending  over 
the  half-created  shape,  and  stretching  forth  his  arms 
as  if  he  would  have  embraced  and  drawn  it  to  his 
heart ;  while,  had  such  a  miracle  been  possible,  his 
countenance  expressed  passion  enough  to  communicate 
warmth  and  sensibility  to  the  lifeless  oak. 

"  Strange  enough ! "  said  the  artist  to  himself.  "  Who 
would  have  looked  for  a  modern  Pygmalion  in  the  per 
son  of  a  Yankee  mechanic  !  " 

As  yet,  the  image  was  but  vague  in  its  outward  pre 
sentment  ;  so  that,  as  in  the  cloud  shapes  around  the 
western  sun,  the  observer  rather  felt,  or  was  led  to  im 
agine,  than  really  saw  what  was  intended  by  it.  Day 
by  day,  however,  the  work  assumed  greater  precision, 
and  settled  its  irregular  and  misty  outline  into  dis- 
tincter  grace  and  beauty.  The  general  design  was  now 
obvious  to  the  common  eye.  It  was  a  female  figure,  in 
what  appeared  to  be  a  foreign  dress ;  the  gown  being 
laced  over  the  bosom,  and  opening  in  front  so  as  to  dis 
close  a  skirt  or  petticoat,  the  folds  and  inequalities  of 
which  were  admirably  represented  in  the  oaken  sub- 


354          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

stance.  She  wore  a  hat  of  singular  gracefulness,  and 
abundantly  laden  with  flowers,  such  as  never  grew  in 
the  rude  soil  of  New  England,  but  which,  with  all  their 
fanciful  luxuriance,  had  a  natural  truth  that  it  seemed 
impossible  for  the  most  fertile  imagination  to  have  at 
tained  without  copying  from  real  prototypes.  There 
were  several  little  appendages  to  this  dress,  such  as  a 
fan,  a  pair  of  earrings,  a  chain  about  the  neck,  a  watch 
in  the  bosom,  and  a  ring  upon  the  finger,  all  of  which 
would  have  been  deemed  beneath  the  dignity  of  sculp 
ture.  They  were  put  on,  however,  with  as  much  taste 
as  a  lovely  woman  might  have  shown  in  her  attire,  and 
could  therefore  have  shocked  none  but  a  judgment 
spoiled  by  artistic  rules. 

The  face  was  still  imperfect ;  but  gradually,  by  a 
magic  touch,  intelligence  and  sensibility  brightened 
through  the  features,  with  all  the  effect  of  light  gleam 
ing  forth  from  within  the  solid  oak.  The  face  became 
alive.  It  was  a  beautiful,  though  not  precisely  regu 
lar  and  somewhat  haughty  aspect,  but  with  a  certain 
piquancy  about  the  eyes  and  mouth,  which,  of  all  ex 
pressions,  would  have  seemed  the  most  impossible  to 
throw  over  a  wooden  countenance.  And  now,  so  far 
as  carving  went,  this  wonderful  production  was  com 
plete. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  who  had  hardly  missed  a 

single  day  in  his  visits  to  the  carver's  workshop,  "  if 

this  work  were  in  marble  it  would  make  you  famous  at 

,  once ;  nay,  I  would  almost  affirm  that  it  would  make 

^  an  era  in  the  art.     It  is  as  ideal  as  an  antique  statue, 

and  yet  as  real  as  any  lovely  woman  whom  one  meets 

at  a  fireside  or  in  the  street.     But  I  trust  you  do  not 

mean  to  desecrate  this  exquisite  creature  with  paint, 

like  those  staring  kings  and  admirals  yonder?** 


DROWNE 'S   WOODEN  IMAGE.  355 

"  Not  paint  her  ! "  exclaimed  Captain  Hunnewell, 
who  stood  by  ;  "  not  paint  the  figure-head  of  the  Cyno 
sure  !  And  what  sort  of  a  figure  should  I  cut  in  a  for 
eign  port  with  such  an  unpainted  oaken  stick  as  this 
over  my  prow !  She  must,  and  she  shall,  be  painted 
to  the  life,  from  the  topmost  flower  in  her  hat  down  to 
the  silver  spangles  on  her  slippers." 

"Mr.  Copley,"  said  Drowne,  quietly,  "I  know  noth 
ing  of  marble  statuary,  and  nothing  of  the  sculptor's 
rules  of  art ;  but  of  this  wooden  image,  this  work  of 
my  hands,  this  creature  of  my  heart," — and  here  his 
voice  faltered  and  choked  in  a  very  singular  manner, — 
"  of  this  —  of  her  —  I  may  say  that  I  know  something, 
A  well-spring  of  inward  wisdom  gushed  within  me  as 
I  wrought  upon  the  oak  with  my  whole  strength,  and 
soul,  and  faith.  Let  others  do  what  they  may  with 
marble,  and  adopt  what  rules  they  choose.  If  I  can 
produce  my  desired  effect  by  painted  wood,  those  rules  / 
are  not  for  me,  and  I  have  a  right  to  disregard  them." 

"  The  very  spirit  of  genius,"  muttered  Copley  to  him 
self.  "  How  otherwise  should  this  carver  feel  himself 
entitled  to  transcend  all  rules,  and  make  me  ashamed 
of  quoting  them  ?  " 

He  looked  earnestly  at  Drowne,  and  again  saw  that 
expression  of  human  love  which,  in  a  spiritual  sense, 
as  the  artist  could  not  help  imagining,  was  the  secret 
of  the  life  that  had  been  breathed  into  this  block  of 
wood. 

The  carver,  still  in  the  same  secrecy  that  marked  all 
his  operations  upon  this  mysterious  image,  proceeded 
to  paint  the  habiliments  in  their  proper  colors,  and  the 
countenance  with  Nature's  red  and  white.  When  all 
was  finished  he  threw  open  his  workshop,  and  admitted 
the  towns-people  to  behold  what  he  had  done.  Most 


356          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

persons,  at  their  first  entrance,  felt  impelled  to  remove 
their  hats,  and  pay  such  reverence  as  was  due  to  the 
richly-dressed  and  beautiful  young  lady  who  seemed  to 
stand  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  with  oaken  chips  and 
shavings  scattered  at  her  feet.  Then  came  a  sensation 
of  fear ;  as  if,  not  being  actually  human,  yet  so  like 
humanity,  she  must  therefore  be  something  preternat 
ural.  There  was,  in  truth,  an  indefinable  air  and  ex 
pression  that  might  reasonably  induce  the  query,  Who 
and  from  what  sphere  this  daughter  of  the  oak  should 
be  ?  The  strange,  rich  flowers  of  Eden  on  her  head  ; 
the  complexion,  so  much  deeper  and  more  brilliant 
than  those  of  our  native  beauties  ;  the  foreign,  as  it 
seemed,  and  fantastic  garb,  yet  not  too  fantastic  to  be 
worn  decorously  in  the  street ;  the  delicately-wrought 
embroidery  of  the  skirt ;  the  broad  gold  chain  aboui- 
her  neck  ;  the  curious  ring  upon  her  finger  ;  the  fan, 
so  exquisitely  sculptured  in  open  work,  and  painted  to 
resemble  pearl  and  ebony  ;  —  where  could  Drowne,  in 
his  sober  walk  of  life,  have  beheld  the  vision  here  so 
matchlessly  embodied  !  And  then  her  face  !  In  the 
dark  eyes,  and  around  the  voluptuous  mouth,  there 
played  a  look  made  up  of  pride,  coquetry,  and  a  gleam 
of  mirthfulness,  which  impressed  Copley  with  the  idea 
that  the  image  was  secretly  enjoying  the  perplexing 
admiration  of  himself  and  other  beholders. 

"  And  will  you,"  said  he  to  the  carver,  "permit  this 
masterpiece  to  become  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel? 
Give  the  honest  captain  yonder  figure  of  Britannia  — 
it  will  answer  his  purpose  far  better  —  and  send  this 
fairy  queen  to  England,  where,  for  aught  I  know,  it 
may  bring  you  a  thousand  pounds." 

"  I  have  not  wrought  it  for  money,"  said  Drowne. 

«'  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  this !  "  thought  Copley, 


DROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  357 

"  A  Yankee,  and  throw  away  the  chance  of  making  his 
fortune !  He  has  gone  mad ;  and  thence  has  come  this 
gleam  of  genius." 

There  was  still  further  proof  of  Drowne's  lunacy,  if 
credit  were  due  to  the  rumor  that  he  had  been  seen 
kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  oaken  lady,  and  gazing  with 
a  lover's  passionate  ardor  into  the  face  that  his  own 
hands  had  created.  The  bigots  of  the  day  hinted  that 
it  would  be  no  matter  of  surprise  if  an  evil  spirit  were 
allowed  to  enter  this  beautiful  form,  and  seduce  the 
carver  to  destruction. 

The  fame  of  the  image  spread  far  and  wide.  The 
inhabitants  visited  it  so  universally,  that  after  a  few 
days  of  exhibition  there  was  hardly  an  old  man  or  a 
child  who  had  not  become  minutely  familiar  with  its 
aspect.  Even  had  the  story  of  Drowne's  wooden  im 
age  ended  here,  its  celebrity  might  have  been  pro 
longed  for  many  years  by  the  reminiscences  of  those 
who  looked  upon  it  in  their  childhood,  and  saw  nothing 
else  so  beautiful  in  after  life.  But  the  town  was  now 
astounded  by  an  event,  the  narrative  of  which  has 
formed  itself  into  one  of  the  most  singular  legends 
that  are  yet  to  be  met  with  in  the  traditionary  chim 
ney  corners  of  the  New  England  metropolis,  where  old 
men  and  women  sit  dreaming  of  the  past,  and  wag 
their  heads  at  the  dreamers  of  the  present  and  the  fu 
ture. 

One  fine  morning,  just  before  the  departure  of  the 
Cynosure  on  her  second  voyage  to  Fayal,  the  com 
mander  of  that  gallant  vessel  was  seen  to  issue  from 
his  residence  in  Hanover  Street.  He  was  stylishly 
dressed  in  a  blue  broadcloth  coat,  with  gold  lace  at  the 
Beams  and  button-holes,  an  embroidered  scarlet  waist 
coat,  a  triangular  hat,  with  a  loop  and  broad  binding 


358          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

of  gold,  and  wore  a  silver-hilted  hanger  at  his  side. 
But  the  good  captain  might  have  been  arrayed  in  the 
robes  of  a  prince  or  the  rags  of  a  beggar,  without  in 
either  case  attracting  notice,  while  obscured  by  such  a 
companion  as  now  leaned  on  his  arm.  The  people  in 
the  street  started,  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  either  leaped 
aside  from  their  path,  or  stood  as  if  transfixed  to  wood 
or  marble  in  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  see  it?  —  do  you  see  it  ?  "  cried  one,  with 
tremulous  eagerness.  "  It  is  the  very  same  !  " 

"The  same?"  answered  another,  who  had  arrived 
in  town  only  the  night  before.  u  Who  do  you  mean  ? 
I  see  only  a  sea-captain  in  his  shore-going  clothes,  and 
a  young  lady  in  a  foreign  habit,  with  a  bunch  of  beau 
tiful  flowers  in  her  hat.  On  my  word,  she  is  as  fair 
and  bright  a  damsel  as  my  eyes  have  looked  on  this 
many  a  day  !  " 

"  Yes ;  the  same !  —  the  very  same  !  "  repeated  the 
other.  "  Drowne's  wooden  image  has  come  to  life !  " 

Here  was  a  miracle  indeed!  Yet,  illuminated  by 
the  sunshine,  or  darkened  by  the  alternate  shade  of 
the  houses,  and  with  its  garments  fluttering  lightly  in 
the  morning  breeze,  there  passed  the  image  along  the 
street.  It  was  exactly  and  minutely  the  shape,  the 
garb,  and  the  face  which  the  towns-people  had  so  re 
cently  thronged  to  see  and  admire.  Not  a  rich  flower 
upon  her  head,  not  a  single  leaf,  but  had  had  its  proto 
type  in  Drowne's  wooden  workmanship,  although  now 
their  fragile  grace  had  become  flexible,  and  was  shaken 
by  every  footstep  that  the  wearer  made.  The  broad 
gold  chain  upon  the  neck  was  identical  with  the  one 
represented  on  the  image,  and  glistened  with  the  mo 
tion  imparted  by  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  bosom  which 
it  decorated.  A  real  diamond  sparkled  on  her  finger. 


BROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  359 

In  her  right  hand  she  bore  a  pearl  and  ebony  fan, 
which  she  flourished  with  a  fantastic  and  bewitching 
coquetry,  that  was  likewise  expressed  in  all  her  move 
ments  as  well  as  in  the  style  of  her  beauty  and  the 
attire  that  so  well  harmonized  with  it.  The  face 
with  its  brilliant  depth  of  complexion  had  the  same 
piquancy  of  mirthful  mischief  that  was  fixed  upon  the 
countenance  of  the  image,  but  which  was  here  varied 
and  continually  shifting,  yet  always  essentially  the 
same,  like  the  sunny  gleam  upon  a  bubbling  fountain. 
On  the  whole,  there  was  something  so  airy  and  yet  so 
real  in  the  figure,  and  withal  so  perfectly  did  it  rep 
resent  Drowne's  image,  that  people  knew  not  whether 
to  suppose  the  magic  wood  etherealized  into  a  spirit 
or  warmed  and  softened  into  an  actual  woman. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  muttered  a  Puritan  of  the 
old  stamp,  "  Drowne  has  sold  himself  to  the  devil ; 
and  doubtless  this  gay  Captain  Hunnewell  is  a  party 
to  the  bargain." 

"  And  I,"  said  a  young  man  who  overheard  him, 
"  would  almost  consent  to  be  the  third  victim,  for  the 
liberty  of  saluting  those  lovely  lips." 

"  And  so  would  I,"  said  Copley,  the  painter,  "  for 
the  privilege  of  taking  her  picture." 

The  image,  or  the  apparition,  whichever  it  might  be, 
?till  escorted  by  the  bold  captain,  proceeded  from  Han 
over  Street  through  some  of  the  cross  lanes  that  make 
this  portion  of  the  town  so  intricate,  to  Ann  Street, 
thence  into  Dock  Square,  and  so  downward  to  Drowne's 
shop,  which  stood  just  on  the  water's  edge.  The  crowd 
still  followed,  gathering  volume  as  it  rolled  along. 
Never  had  a  modern  miracle  occurred  in  such  broad 
daylight,  nor  in  the  presence  of  such  a  multitude  of 
fitnesses.  The  airy  image,  as  if  conscious  that  she 


360  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

was  the  object  of  the  murmurs  and  disturbance  that 
swelled  behind  her,  appeared  slightly  vexed  and  flus 
tered,  yet  still  in  a  manner  consistent  with  the  light 
vivacity  and  sportive  mischief  that  were  written  in 
her  countenance.  She  was  observed  to  flutter  her  fan 
with  such  vehement  rapidity  that  the  elaborate  deli 
cacy  of  its  workmanship  gave  way,  and  it  remained 
broken  in  her  hand. 

Arriving  at  Drowne's  door,  while  the  captain  threw 
it  open,  the  marvellous  apparition  paused  an  instant 
on  the  threshold,  assuming  the  very  attitude  of  the 
image,  and  casting  over  the  crowd  that  glance  of  sunny 
coquetry  which  all  remembered  on  the  face  of  the 
oaken  lady.  She  and  her  cavalier  then  disappeared. 

"  Ah !  "  murmured  the  crowd,  drawing  a  deep  breath, 
as  with  one  vast  pair  of  lungs. 

"  The  world  looks  darker  now  that  she  has  vanished," 
said  some  of  the  young  men. 

But  the  aged,  whose  recollections  dated  as  far  back 
as  witch  times,  shook  their  heads,  and  hinted  that  our 
forefathers  would  have  thought  it  a  pious  deed  to  burn 
the  daughter  of  the  oak  with  fire. 

"  If  she  be  other  than  a  bubble  of  the  elements," 
exclaimed  Copley,  "  I  must  look  upon  her  face  again." 

He  accordingly  entered  the  shop ;  and  there,  in  her 
usual  corner,  stood  the  image,  gazing  at  him,  as  it 
might  seem,  with  the  very  same  expression  of  mirthful 
mischief  that  had  been  the  farewell  look  of  the  appa 
rition  when,  but  a  moment  before,  she  turned  her  face 
towards  the  crowd.  The  carver  stood  beside  his  cre 
ation  mending  the  beautiful  fan,  which  by  some  acci 
dent  was  broken  in  her  hand.  But  there  was  no 
longer  any  motion  in  the  lifelike  image,  nor  any  real 
woman  in  the  workshop,  nor  even  the  witchcraft  of  a 


DROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  361 

Bunny  shadow,  that  might  have  deluded  people's  eyes 
as  it  flitted  along  the  street.  Captain  Hunnewell,  too, 
had  vanished.  His  hoarse  sea-breezy  tones,  however, 
were  audible  on  the  other  side  of  a  door  that  opened 
upon  the  water. 

"  Sit  down  in  the  stern  sheets,  my  lady,"  said  the 
gallant  captain.  "  Come,  bear  a  hand,  you  lubbers, 
and  set  us  on  board  in  the  turning  of  a  minute-glass." 

And  then  was  heard  the  stroke  of  oars. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley  with  a  smile  of  intelligence, 
44  you  have  been  a  truly  fortunate  man.  What  painter 
or  statuary  ever  had  such  a  subject !  No  wonder  that 
she  inspired  a  genius  into  you,  and  first  created  the 
artist  who  afterwards  created  her  image." 

Drowne  looked  at  him  with  a  visage  that  bore  the 
traces  of  tears,  but  from  which  the  light  of  imagina 
tion  and  sensibility,  so  recently  illuminating  it,  had 
departed.  He  was  again  the  mechanical  carver  that 
he  had  been  known  to  be  all  his  lifetime. 

"  I  hardly  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Copley," 
said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his  brow.  "  This  image ! 
Can  it  have  been  my  work  ?  Well,  I  have  wrought  it 
in  a  land  of  dream  ;  and  now  that  I  am  broad  awake 
I  must  set  about  finishing  yonder  figure  of  Admiral 
Vernon." 

And  forthwith  he  employed  himself  on  the  stolid 
countenance  of  one  of  his  wooden  progeny,  and  com 
pleted  it  in  his  own  mechanical  style,  from  which  he 
was  never  known  afterwards  to  deviate.  He  followed 
his  business  industriously  for  many  years,  acquired  a 
competence,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  attained 
to  a  dignified  station  in  the  church,  being  remembered 
in  records  and  traditions  as  Deacon  Drowne,  the  carver. 
One  of  his  productions,  an  Indian  chief,  gilded  all  over, 


862          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

stood  during  the  better  part  of  a  century  on  the  cupola 
of  the  Province  House,  bedazzling  the  eyes  of  those 
who  looked  upward,  like  an  angel  of  the  sun.  Another 
work  of  the  good  deacon's  hand  —  a  reduced  likeness 
of  his  friend  Captain  Hunnewell,  holding  a  telescope 
and  quadrant  —  may  be  seen  to  this  day,  at  the  corner 
of  Broad  and  State  streets,  serving  in  the  useful  capac 
ity  of  sign  to  the  shop  of  a  nautical  instrument  maker. 
We  know  not  how  to  account  for  the  inferiority  of  this 
quaint  old  figure,  as  compared  with  the  recorded  excel 
lence  of  the  Oaken  Lady,  unless  on  the  supposition 
that  in  every  human  spirit  there  is  imagination,  sensi 
bility,  creative  power,  genius,  which,  according  to  cir 
cumstances,  may  either  be  developed  in  this  world,  or 
shrouded  in  a  mask  of  dulness  until  another  state  of 
being.  To  our  friend  Drowne  there  came  a  brief  sea 
son  of  excitement,  kindled  by  love.  It  rendered  him 
a  genius  for  that  one  occasion,  but,  quenched  in  disap 
pointment,  left  him  again  the  mechanical  carver  in 
wood,  without  the  power  even  of  appreciating  the  work 
that  his  own  hands  had  wrought.  Yet  who  can  doubt 
that  the  very  highest  state  to  which  a  human  spirit 
can  attain,  in  its  loftiest  aspirations,  is  its  truest  and 
most  natural  state,  and  that  Drowne  was  more  consist 
ent  with  himself  when  he  wrought  the  admirable  fig 
ure  of  the  mysterious  lady,  than  when  he  perpetrated 
a  whole  progeny  of  blockheads  ? 

There  was  a  rumor  in  Boston,  about  this  period,  that 
a  young  Portuguese  lady  of  rank,  on  some  occasion  of 
political  or  domestic  disquietude,  had  fled  from  her 
home  in  Fayal  and  put  herself  under  the  protection  of 
Captain  Hunnewell,  on  board  of  whose  vessel,  and  at 
whose  residence,  she  was  sheltered  until  a  change  of 
affairs.  This  fair  stranger  must  have  been  the  origi 
nal  of  Drowne's  Wooden  Image. 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 

A  GEAVE  figure,  with  a  pair  of  mysterious  spectacles 
on  his  nose  and  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  was  seated  at  a 
desk  in  the  corner  of  a  metropolitan  office.  The  apart 
ment  was  fitted  up  with  a  counter,  and  furnished  with 
an  oaken  cabinet  and  a  chair  or  two,  in  simple  and 
business-like  style.  Around  the  walls  were  stuck  ad 
vertisements  of  articles  lost,  or  articles  wanted,  or  ar 
ticles  to  be  disposed  of ;  in  one  or  another  of  which 
classes  were  comprehended  nearly  all  the  conveniences, 
or  otherwise,  that  the  imagination  of  man  has  con 
trived.  The  interior  of  the  room  was  thrown  into 
shadow,  partly  by  the  tall  edifices  that  rose  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  street,  and  partly  by  the  immense 
show  bills  of  blue  and  crimson  paper  that  were  ex 
panded  over  each  of  the  three  windows.  Undisturbed 
by  the  tramp  of  feet,  the  rattle  of  wheels,  the  hum  of 
voices,  the  shout  of  the  city  crier,  the  scream  of  the 
newsboys,  and  other  tokens  of  the  multitudinous  life 
that  surged  along  in  front  of  the  office,  the  figure  at 
the  desk  pored  diligently  over  a  folio  volume,  of  ledg 
er-like  size  and  aspect.  He  looked  like  the  spirit  of  a 
record  —  the  soul  of  his  own  great  volume  —  made  vis 
ible  in  mortal  shape. 

But  scarcely  an  instant  elapsed  without  the  appear 
ance  at  the  door  of  some  individual  from  the  busy  pop 
ulation  whose  vicinity  was  manifested  by  so  much  buzz, 
and  clatter,  and  outcry.  Now,  it  was  a  thriving  me- 
onanic  in  quest  of  a  tenement  that  should  come  within 


364          MOSSES  FROM  AN    OLD  MANSE. 

his  moderate  means  of  rent ;  now,  a  ruddy  Irish  girl 
from  the  banks  of  Killarney,  wandering  from  kitchen 
to  kitchen  of  our  land,  while  her  heart  still  hung  in  the 
peat  smoke  of  her  native  cottage ;  now,  a  single  gen 
tleman  looking  out  for  economical  board  ;  and  now  — 
for  this  establishment  offered  an  epitome  of  worldly 
pursuits  —  it  was  a  faded  beauty  inquiring  for  her  lost 
bloom ;  or  Peter  Schlemihl  for  his  lost  shadow ;  or  an 
author  of  ten  years'  standing  for  his  vanished  reputa 
tion  ;  or  a  moody  man  for  yesterday's  sunshine. 

At  the  next  lifting  of  the  latch  there  entered  a  per 
son  with  his  hat  awry  upon  his  head,  his  clothes  per 
versely  ill  suited  to  his  form,  his  eyes  staring  in  direc 
tions  opposite  to  their  intelligence,  and  a  certain  odd 
unsuitableness  pervading  his  whole  figure.  Wherever 
he  might  chance  to  be,  whether  in  palace  or  cottage, 
church  or  market,  on  land  or  sea,  or  even  at  his  own 
fireside,  he  must  have  worn  the  characteristic  expres- 
\  sion  of  a  man  out  of  his  right  place. 

"  This,"  inquired  he,  putting  his  question  in  the 
form  of  an  assertion,  "  this  is  the  Central  Intelligence 
Office?" 

"  Even  so,"  answered  the  figure  at  the  desk,  turning 
another  leaf  of  his  volume ;  he  then  looked  the  appli 
cant  in  the  face  and  said  briefly,  "  Your  business  ?  " 

"  I  want,"  said  the  latter,  with  tremulous  earnest 
ness,  "  a  place  !  " 

"  A  place  !  and  of  what  nature  ?  "  asked  the  Intelli 
gencer.  "  There  are  many  vacant,  or  soon  to  be  so, 
some  of  which  will  probably  suit,  since  they  range  from 
that  of  a  footman  up  to  a  seat  at  the  council  board,  or 
in  the  cabinet,  or  a  throne,  or  a  presidential  chair." 

The  stranger  stood  pondering  before  the  desk  with 
an  unquiet,  dissatisfied  air  —  a  dull,  vague  pain  of 


THE  INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE.  365 

heart,  expressed  by  a  slight  contortion  of  the  brow  — - 
an  earnestness  of  glance,  that  asked  and  expected,  yet 
continually  wavered  as  if  distrusting.  In  short,  he  evi 
dently  wanted,  not  in  a  physical  or  intellectual  sense, 
but  with  an  urgent  moral  necessity  that  is  the  hard 
est  of  all  things  to  satisfy,  since  it  knows  not  its  own 
object. 

"  Ah,  you  mistake  me  !  "  said  he  at  length,  with  a 
gesture  of  nervous  impatience.  "  Either  of  the  places 
you  mention,  indeed,  might  answer  my  purpose  ;  or, 
more  probably,  none  of  them.  I  want  my  place  !  my 
own  place!  my  true  place  in  the  world!  my  proper 
sphere !  my  thing  to  do,  which  nature  intended  me  to 
perform  when  she  fashioned  me  thus  awry,  and  which 
I  have  vainly  sought  all  my  lifetime  !  Whether  it  be 
a  footman's  duty  or  a  king's  is  of  little  consequence, 
so  it  be  naturally  mine.  Can  you  help  me  here?  " 

"  I  will  enter  your  application,"  answered  the  In 
telligencer,  at  the  same  time  writing  a  few  lines  in  his 
volume.  "But  to  undertake  such  a  business,  I  tell 
you  frankly,  is  quite  apart  from  the  ground  covered  by 
my  official  duties.  Ask  for  something  specific,  and  it 
may  doubtless  be  negotiated  for  you  on  your  compli 
ance  with  the  conditions.  But  were  I  to  go  further,  I 
should  have  the  whole  population  of  the  city  upon  my 
shoulders  ;  since  far  the  greater  proportion  of  them 
are,  more  or  less,  in  your  predicament." 

The  applicant  sank  into  a  fit  of  despondency,  and 
passed  out  of  the  door  without  again  lifting  his  eyes ; 
and,  if  he  died  of  the  disappointment,  he  was  probably 
buried  in  the  wrong  tomb,  inasmuch  as  the  fatality  of 
such  people  never  deserts  them,  and  whether  alive  or 
dead  they  are  invariably  out  of  place. 

Almost  immediately  another  foot  was  heard  on  the 


366  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

threshold.  A  youth  entered  hastily,  and  threw  a  glance 
around  the  office  to  ascertain  whether  the  man  of  intel 
ligence  was  alone.  He  then  approached  close  to  the 
desk,  blushed  like  a  maiden,  and  seemed  at  a  loss  how 
to  broach  his  business. 

"  You  come  upon  an  affair  of  the  heart,"  said  the 
official  personage,  looking  into  him  through  his  mys 
terious  spectacles.  "  State  it  in  as  few  words  as  may 
be." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  the  youth.  "I  have  a 
heart  to  dispose  of." 

"You  seek  an  exchange?"  said  the  Intelligencer. 
"  Foolish  youth,  why  not  be  contented  with  your  own  ?  " 

"  Because,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  losing  his 
embarrassment  in  a  passionate  glow,  "  because  my 
heart  burns  me  with  an  intolerable  fire  ;  it  tortures 
me  all  day  long  with  yearnings  for  I  know  not  what, 
and  feverish  throbbings,  and  the  pangs  of  a  vague  sor 
row  ;  and  it  awakens  me  in  the  night-time  with  a  quake 
when  there  is  nothing  to  be  feared.  I  cannot  endure 
it  any  longer.  It  were  wiser  to  throw  away  such  a 
heart,  even  if  it  brings  me  nothing  in  return." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  man  of  office,  making  an 
entry  in  his  volume.  "  Your  affair  will  be  easily  trans 
acted.  This  species  of  brokerage  makes  no  inconsid 
erable  part  of  my  business,  and  there  is  always  a  large 
assortment  of  the  article  to  select  from.  Herein,  if  I 
mistake  not,  comes  a  pretty  fair  sample." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  door  was  gently  and  slowly 
thrust  ajar,  affording  a  glimpse  of  the  slender  figure  of 
a  young  girl,  who,  as  she  timidly  entered,  seemed  to 
bring  the  light  and  cheerfulness  of  the  outer  atmosphere 
into  the  somewhat  gloomy  apartment.  We  know  not 
her  errand  there,  nor  can  we  reveal  whether  the  young 


THE  INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE.  367 

man  gave  up  his  heart  into  her  custody.  If  so,  the 
arrangement  was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  in  nine 
ty-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  where  the  parallel  sen 
sibilities  of  a  similar  age,  importunate  affections,  and 
the  easy  satisfaction  of  characters  not  deeply  conscious 
of  themselves,  supply  the  place  of  any  prof  ounder  sym 
pathy. 

Not  always,  however,  was  the  agency  of  the  passions 
and  affections  an  office  of  so  little  trouble.  It  hap 
pened  rarely,  indeed,  in  proportion  to  the  cases  that 
came  under  an  ordinary  rule,  but  still  it  did  happen  — 
that  a  heart  was  occasionally  brought  hither  of  such 
exquisite  material,  so  delicately  attempered,  and  so 
curiously  wrought,  that  no  other  heart  could  be  found 
to  match  it.  It  might  almost  be  considered  a  misfor 
tune,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  to  be  the  possessor  of 
such  a  diamond  of  the  purest  water ;  since  in  any  rea 
sonable  probability  it  could  only  be  exchanged  for  an 
ordinary  pebble,  or  a  bit  of  cunningly-manufactured 
glass,  or,  at  least,  for  a  jewel  of  native  richness,  but 
ill  set,  or  with  some  fatal  flaw,  or  an  earthy  vein  run 
ning  through  its  central  lustre.  To  choose  another 
figure,  it  is  sad  that  hearts  which  have  their  well-spring 
in  the  infinite,  and  contain  inexhaustible  sympathies, 
should  ever  be  doomed  to  pour  themselves  into  shallow 
vessels,  and  thus  lavish  their  rich  affections  on  the 
ground.  Strange  that  the  finer  and  deeper  nature, 
whether  in  man  or  woman,  while  possessed  of  every 
other  delicate  instinct,  should  so  often  lack  that  most 
invaluable  one  of  preserving  itself  from  contamination 
with  what  is  of  a  baser  kind  !  Sometimes,  it  is  true, 
the  spiritual  fountain  is  kept  pure  by  a  wisdom  within 
itself,  and  sparkles  into  the  light  of  heaven  without  a 
stain  from  the  earthy  strata  through  which  it  had  gushed 


868          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

upward.  And  sometimes,  even  here  on  earth,  the  pur$ 
mingles  with  the  pure,  and  the  inexhaustible  is  recom 
pensed  with  the  infinite.  But  these  miracles,  though 
.he  should  claim  the  credit  of  them,  are  far  beyond  the 
scope  of  such  a  superficial  agent  in  human  affairs  as 
the  figure  in  the  mysterious  spectacles. 

Again  the  door  was  opened,  admitting  the  bustle  of 
the  city  with  a  fresher  reverberation  into  the  Intelli 
gence  Office.  Now  entered  a  man  of  woe-begone  and 
downcast  look ;  it  was  such  an  aspect  as  if  he  had  lost 
the  very  soul  out  of  his  body,  and  had  traversed  all  the 
world  over,  searching  in  the  dust  of  the  highways,  and 
along  the  shady  footpaths,  and  beneath  the  leaves  of 
the  forest,  and  among  the  sands  of  the  sea-shore,  in 
hopes  to  recover  it  again.  He  had  bent  an  anxious 
glance  along  the  pavement  of  the  street  as  he  came 
hitherward ;  he  looked  also  in  the  angle  of  the  door 
step,  and  upon  the  floor  of  the  room ;  and,  finally,  com 
ing  up  to  the  man  of  Intelligence,  he  gazed  through  the 
inscrutable  spectacles  which  the  latter  wore,  as  if  the 
lost  treasure  might  be  hidden  within  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  lost  "  —  he  began  ;  and  then  he  paused. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Intelligencer,  "  I  see  that  you  have 
lost  —  but  what?" 

"  I  have  lost  a  precious  jewel ! "  replied  the  unfor 
tunate  person,  "the  like  of  which  is  not  to  be  found 
among  any  prince's  treasures.  While  I  possessed  it> 
the  contemplation  of  it  was  my  sole  and  sufficient  hap 
piness.  No  price  should  have  purchased  it  of  me ;  but 
it  has  fallen  from  my  bosom  where  I  wore  it  in  my 
careless  wanderings  about  the  city." 

After  causing  the  stranger  to  describe  the  marks  of 
his  lost  jewel,  the  Intelligencer  opened  a  drawer  of  the 
oaken  cabinet  which  has  been  mentioned  as  forming  a 


THE  INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE.  369 

part  of  the  furniture  of  the  room.  Here  were  deposited 
whatever  articles  had  been  picked  up  in  the  streets, 
until  the  right  owners  should  claim  them.  It  was  a 
strange  and  heterogeneous  collection.  Not  the  least 
remarkable  part  of  it  was  a  great  number  of  wedding- 
rings,  each  one  of  which  had  been  riveted  upon  the 
finger  with  holy  vows,  and  all  the  mystic  potency  that 
the  most  solemn  rites  could  attain,  but  had,  neverthe 
less,  proved  too  slippery  for  the  wearer's  vigilance. 
The  gold  of  some  was  worn  thin,  betokening  the  attri 
tion  of  years  of  wedlock ;  others,  glittering  from  the 
jeweller's  shop,  must  have  been  lost  within  the  honey 
moon.  There  were  ivory  tablets,  the  leaves  scribbled 
over  with  sentiments  that  had  been  the  deepest  truths 
of  the  writer's  earlier  years,  but  which  were  now  quite 
obliterated' from  his  memory.  So  scrupulously  were 
articles  preserved  in  this  depository,  that  not  even 
withered  flowers  were  rejected ;  white  roses,  and  blush 
roses,  and  moss  roses,  fit  emblems  of  virgin  purity  and 
shamefacedness,  which  had  been  lost  or  flung  away, 
and  trampled  into  the  pollution  of  the  streets ;  locks  of 
hair  —  the  golden  and  the  glossy  dark — the  long  tresses 
of  woman  and  the  crisp  curls  of  man,  signified  that 
lovers  were  now  and  then  so  heedless  of  the  faith  in 
trusted  to  them  as  to  drop  its  symbol  from  the  treasure 
place  of  the  bosom.  Many  of  these  things  were  im 
bued  with  perfumes,  and  perhaps  a  sweet  scent  had 
departed  from  the  lives  of  their  former  possessors  ever 
since  they  had  so  wilfully  or  negligently  lost  them. 
Here  were  gold  pencil  cases,  little  ruby  hearts  with 
golden  arrows  through  them,  bosom-pins,  pieces  of 
coin,  and  small  articles  of  every  description,  compris 
ing  nearly  all  that  have  been  lost  since  a  long  time 
ago.  Most  of  them,  doubtless,  had  a  history  and  a 


370          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

meaning,  if  there  were  time  to  search  it  out  and  room 
to  tell  it.  Whoever  has  missed  anything  valuable, 
whether  out  of  his  heart,  mind,  or  pocket,  would  do 
well  to  make  inquiry  at  the  Central  Intelligence  Office. 

And  in  the  corner  of  one  of  the  drawers  of  the 
oaken  cabinet,  after  considerable  research,  was  found 
a  great  pearl,  looking  like  the  soul  of  celestial  purity 
congealed  and  polished. 

"  There  is  my  jewel !  my  very  pearl !  "  cried  the 
stranger,  almost  beside  himself  with  rapture.  "  It  is 
mine !  Give  it  me,  this  moment !  or  I  shall  perish  !  " 

"  I  perceive,"  said  the  Man  of  Intelligence,  examin 
ing  it  more  closely,  "  that  this  is  the  Pearl  of  Great 
Price." 

"  The  very  same,"  answered  the  stranger.  "  Judge, 
then,  of  my  misery  at  losing  it  out  of  my  bosom  !  Re 
store  it  to  me  !  I  must  not  live  without  it  an  instant 
longer." 

"Pardon  me,"  rejoined  the  Intelligencer,  calmly. 
u  You  ask  what  is  beyond  my  duty.  This  pearl,  as 
you  well  know,  is  held  upon  a  peculiar  tenure ;  and 
having  once  let  it  escape  from  your  keeping,  you  have 
no  greater  claim  to  it  —  nay,  not  so  great  —  as  any 
other  person.  I  cannot  give  it  back." 

Nor  could  the  entreaties  of  the  miserable  man  — 
who  saw  before  his  eyes  the  jewel  of  his  life  without 
the  power  to  reclaim  it  —  soften  the  heart  of  this  stern 
being,  impassive  to  human  sympathy,  though  exercis 
ing  such  an  apparent  influence  over  human  fortunes. 
Finally  the  loser  of  the  inestimable  pearl  clutched  his 
hands  among  his  hair,  and  ran  madly  forth  into  the 
world,  which  was  affrighted  at  his  desperate  looks. 
There  passed  him  on  the  doorstep  a  fashionable  young 
gentleman,  whose  business  was  to  inquire  for  a  damask 


THE  INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE.  371 

fosebud,  the  gift  of  his  lady  love,  which  he  had  lost  out 
of  his  button-hole  within  an  hour  after  receiving  it. 
So  various  were  the  errands  of  those  who  visited  this 
Central  Office,  where  all  human  wishes  seemed  to  be 
made  known,  and  so  far  as  destiny  would  allow,  nego 
tiated  to  their  fulfilment. 

The  next  that  entered  was  a  man  beyond  the  middle 
age,  bearing  the  look  of  one  who  knew  the  world  and 
his  own  course  in  it.  He  had  just  alighted  from  a 
handsome  private  carriage,  which  had  orders  to  wait 
in  the  street  while  its  owner  transacted  his  business. 
This  person  came  up  to  the  desk  with  a  quick,  deter 
mined  step,  and  looked  the  Intelligencer  in  the  face 
with  a  resolute  eye ;  though,  at  the  same  time,  some 
secret  trouble  gleamed  from  it  in  red  and  dusky  light. 

"  I  have  an  estate  to  dispose  of,"  said  he,  with  a 
brevity  that  seemed  characteristic. 

"Describe  it,"  said  the  Intelligencer. 

The  applicant  proceeded  to  give  the  boundaries  of 
his  property,  its  nature,  comprising  tillage,  pasture, 
woodland,  and  pleasure  grounds,  in  ample  circuit;  to 
gether  with  a  mansion-house,  in  the  construction  of 
which  it  had  been  his  object  to  realize  a  castle  in  the 
air,  hardening  its  shadowy  walls  into  granite,  and  ren 
dering  its  visionary  splendor  perceptible  to  the  awak 
ened  eye.  Judging  from  his  description,  it  was  beau 
tiful  enough  to  vanish  like  a  dream,  yet  substantial 
enough  to  endure  for  centuries.  He  spoke,  too,  of  the 
gorgeous  furniture,  the  refinements  of  upholstery,  and 
all  the  luxurious  artifices  that  combined  to  render  this 
a  residence  where  life  might  flow  onward  in  a  stream 
of  golden  days,  undisturbed  by  the  ruggedness  which 
fate  loves  to  fling  into  it. 

"  I  am  a  man  of  strong  will,"  said  he,  in  conclusion, 


872          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"and  at  my  first  setting  out  in  life,  as  a  poor,  un 
friended  youth,  I  resolved  to  make  myself  the  possessor 
of  such  a  mansion  and  estate  as  this,  together  with  the 
abundant  revenue  necessary  to  uphold  it.  I  have  suc 
ceeded  to  the  extent  of  my  utmost  wish.  And  this  is 
the  estate  which  I  have  now  concluded  to  dispose  of." 

"  And  your  terms  ?  "  asked  the  Intelligencer,  after 
taking  down  the  particulars  with  which  the  stranger 
had  supplied  him. 

"  Easy,  abundantly  easy  !  "  answered  the  successful 
man,  smiling,  but  with  a  stern  and  almost  frightful 
contraction  of  the  brow,  as  if  to  quell  an  inward  pang. 
"  I  have  been  engaged  in  various  sorts  of  business  — 
a  distiller,  a  trader  to  Africa,  an  East  India  merchant, 
a  speculator  in  the  stocks  —  and,  in  the  course  of  these 
affairs,  have  contracted  an  incumbrance  of  a  certain 
nature.  The  purchaser  of  the  estate  shall  merely  be 
required  to  assume  this  burden  to  himself." 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  the  man  of  Intelligence, 
putting  his  pen  behind  his  ear.  "  I  fear  that  no  bar 
gain  can  be  negotiated  on  these  conditions.  Very  prob 
ably  the  next  possessor  may  acquire  the  estate  with  a 
similar  incumbrance,  but  it  will  be  of  his  own  con 
tracting,  and  will  not  lighten  your  burden  in  the  least." 

"  And  am  I  to  live  on,"  fiercely  exclaimed  the 
stranger,  "  with  the  dirt  of  these  accursed  acres  and 
the  granite  of  this  infernal  mansion  crushing  down  my 
soul  ?  How,  if  I  should  turn  the  edifice  into  an  alms- 
house  or  a  hospital,  or  tear  it  down  and  build  a 
church?  " 

"  You  can  at  least  make  the  experiment,"  said  the 
Intelligencer  ;  "  but  the  whole  matter  is  one  which  you 
\nust  settle  for  yourself." 

The  man  of  deplorable  success  withdrew,  and  got 


THE  INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE.  373 

into  his  coach,  which  rattled  off  lightly  over  the  wooden 
pavements,  though  laden  with  the  weight  of  much  land, 
a  stately  house,  and  ponderous  heaps  of  gold,  all  com 
pressed  into  an  evil  conscience. 

There  now  appeared  many  applicants  for  places ; 
among  the  most  noteworthy  of  whom  was  a  small, 
smoke-dried  figure,  who  gave  himself  out  to  be  one  of 
the  bad  spirits  that  had  waited  upon  Doctor  Faustus 
in  his  laboratory.  He  pretended  to  show  a  certificate 
of  character,  which,  he  averred,  had  been  given  him 
by  that  famous  necromancer,  and  countersigned  by  sev 
eral  masters  whom  he  had  subsequently  served. 

"I  am  afraid,  my  good  friend,"  observed  the  Intel 
ligencer,  "  that  your  chance  of  getting  a  service  is  but 
poor.  Nowadays,  men  act  the  evil  spirit  for  them 
selves  and  their  neighbors,  and  play  the  part  more 
effectually  than  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  your 
fraternity." 

But,  just  as  the  poor  fiend  was  assuming  a  vaporous 
consistency,  being  about  to  vanish  through  the  floor  in 
sad  disappointment  and  chagrin,  the  editor  of  a  politi 
cal  newspaper  chanced  to  enter  the  office  in  quest  of  a 
scribbler  of  party  paragraphs.  The  former  servant  of 
Doctor  Faustus,  with  some  misgivings  as  to  his  suffi 
ciency  of  venom,  was  allowed  to  try  his  hand  in  this 
capacity.  Next  appeared,  likewise  seeking  a  service, 
the  mysterious  man  in  Red,  who  had  aided  Bona 
parte  in  his  ascent  to  imperial  power.  He  was  exam 
ined  as  to  his  qualifications  by  an  aspiring  politician, 
but  finally  rejected,  as  lacking  familiarity  with  the 
tunning  tactics  of  the  present  day. 

People  continued  to  succeed  each  other  with  as  much 
briskness  as  if  everybody  turned  aside,  out  of  the  roar 
and  tumult  of  the  city,  to  record  here  some  want,  or 


374          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

superfluity,  or  desire.  Some  had  goods  or  possessions, 
of  which  they  wished  to  negotiate  the  sale.  A  China 
merchant  had  lost  his  health  by  a  long  residence  in 
that  wasting  climate.  He  very  liberally  offered  his 
disease,  and  his  wealth  along  with  it,  to  any  physician 
who  would  rid  him  of  both  together.  A  soldier  offered 
his  wreath  of  laurels  for  as  good  a  leg  as  that  which 
it  had  cost  him  on  the  battle-field.  One  poor  weary 
wretch  desired  nothing  but  to  be  accommodated  with 
any  creditable  method  of  laying  down  his  life  ;  for  mis 
fortune  and  pecuniary  troubles  had  so  subdued  his 
spirits  that  he  could  no  longer  conceive  the  possibility 
of  happiness,  nor  had  the  heart  to  try  for  it.  Never 
theless,  happening  to  overhear  some  conversation  in 
the  Intelligence  Office  respecting  wealth  to  be  rapidly 
accumulated  by  a  certain  mode  of  speculation,  he  re 
solved  to  live  out  this  one  other  experiment  of  better 
fortune.  Many  persons  desired  to  exchange  their 
youthful  vices  for  others  better  suited  to  the  gravity  of 
advancing  age ;  a  few,  we  are  glad  to  say,  made  ear 
nest  efforts  to  exchange  vice  for  virtue,  and,  hard  as 
the  bargain  was,  succeeded  in  effecting  it.  But  it  was 
remarkable  that  what  all  were  the  least  willing  to  give 
up,  even  on  the  most  advantageous  terms,  were  the 
habits,  the  oddities,  the  characteristic  traits,  the  little 
ridiculous  indulgences,  somewhere  between  faults  and 
follies,  of  which  nobody  but  themselves  could  under 
stand  the  fascination. 

The  great  folio,  in  which  the  Man  of  Intelligence 
recorded  all  these  freaks  of  idle  hearts,  and  aspira 
tions  of  deep  hearts,  and  desperate  longings  of  misera 
ble  hearts,  and  evil  prayers  of  perverted  hearts,  would 
be  curious  reading  were  it  possible  to  obtain  it  for 
publication.  Human  character  in  its  individual  de- 


THE  INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE.  375 

relopments  —  human  nature  in  the  mass  —  may  best 
be  studied  in  its  wishes ;  and  this  was  the  record  of 
them  all.  There  was  an  endless  diversity  of  mode 
and  circumstance,  yet  withal  such  a  similarity  in  the 
real  ground-work,  that  any  one  page  of  the  volume  — 
whether  written  in  the  days  before  the  Flood,  or  the 
yesterday  that  is  just  gone  by,  or  to  be  written  on  the 
morrow  that  is  close  at  hand,  or  a  thousand  ages  hence 
—  might  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  whole.  Not  but 
that  there  were  wild  sallies  of  fantasy  that  could  scarcely 
occur  to  more  than  one  man's  brain,  whether  reason 
able  or  lunatic.  The  strangest  wishes  —  yet  most  in 
cident  to  men  who  had  gone  deep  into  scientific  pur 
suits,  and  attained  a  high  intellectual  stage,  though 
not  the  loftiest  —  were  to  contend  with  Nature,  and 
wrest  from  her  some  secret  or  some  power  which  she 
had  seen  fit  to  withhold  from  mortal  grasp.  She  loves 
to  delude  her  aspiring  students,  and  mock  them  with 
mysteries  that  seem  but  just  beyond  their  utmost  reach. 
To  concoct  new  minerals,  to  produce  new  forms  of 
vegetable  life,  to  create  an  insect,  if  nothing  higher  in 
the  living  scale,  is  a  sort  of  wish  that  has  often  rev 
elled  in  the  breast  of  a  man  of  science.  An  astron 
omer,  who  lived  far  more  among  the  distant  worlds 
of  space  than  in  this  lower  sphere,  recorded  a  wish  to 
behold  the  opposite  side  of  the  moon,  which,  unless 
the  system  of  the  firmament  be  reversed,  she  can  never 
turn  towards  the  earth.  On  the  same  page  of  the 
volume  was  written  the  wish  of  a  little  child  to  have 
the  stars  for  playthings. 

The  most  ordinary  wish,  that  was  written  down 
with  wearisome  recurrence,  was,  of  course,  for  wealth, 
wealth,  wealth,  in  sums  from  a  few  shillings  up  to  un- 
reckonable  thousands.  But  in  reality  this  often-re- 


376          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

peated  expression  covered  as  many  different  desires. 
Wealth  is  the  golden  essence  of  the  outward  world, 
embodying  almost  everything  that  exists  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  soul ;  and  therefore  it  is  the  natural 
yearning  for  the  life  in  the  midst  of  which  we  find 
ourselves,  and  of  which  gold  is  the  condition  of  en 
joyment,  that  men  abridge  into  this  general  wish. 
Here  and  there,  it  is  true,  the  volume  testified  to  some 
heart  so  perverted  as  to  desire  gold  for  its  own  sake. 
Many  wished  for  power ;  a  strange  desire  indeed,  since 
it  is  but  another  form  of  slavery.  Old  people  wished 
for  the  delights  of  youth;  a  fop,  for  a  fashionable 
coat ;  an  idle  reader,  for  a  new  novel ;  a  versifier,  for  a 
rhyme  to  some  stubborn  word ;  a  painter,  for  Titian's 
secret  of  coloring ;  a  prince,  for  a  cottage ;  a  republi 
can,  for  a  kingdom  and  a  palace  ;  a  libertine  for  his 
neighbor's  wife  ;  a  man  of  palate,  for  green  peas  /  and 
a  poor  man,  for  a  crust  of  bread.  The  ambitious  de 
sires  of  public  men,  elsewhere  so  craftily  concealed, 
were  here  expressed  openly  and  boldly,  side  by  side 
with  the  unselfish  wishes  of  the  philanthropist  for  the 
welfare  of  the  race,  so  beautiful,  so  comforting,  in 
contrast  with  the  egotism  that  continually  weighed 
self  against  the  world.  Into  the  darker  secrets  of 
,  the  Book  of  Wishes  we  will  not  penetrate. 

It  would  be  an  instructive  employment  for  a  student 
of  mankind,  perusing  this  volume  carefully  and  com- 
|  paring  its  records  with  men's  perfected  designs,  as 
expressed  in  their  deeds  and  daily  life,  to  ascertain  how 
far  the  one  accorded  with  the  other.  Undoubtedly,  in 
most  cases,  the  correspondence  would  be  found  remote. 
The  holy  and  generous  wish,  that  rises  like  incense 
from  a  pure  heart  towards  heaven,  often  lavishes  its 
sweet  perfume  on  the  blast  of  evil  times.  The  foul, 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE.  377 

selfish,  murderous  wish,  that  steams  forth  from  a  cor 
rupted  heart,  often  passes  into  the  spiritual  atmosphere 
without  beiiig  concreted  into  an  earthly  deed.  Yet  this 
volume  is  probably  truer,  as  a  representation  of  the 
human  heart,  than  is  the  living  drama  of  action  as  it 
evolves  around  us.  There  is  more  of  good  and  more 
of  evil  in  it ;  more  redeeming  points  of  the  bad  and 
more  errors  of  the  virtuous;  higher  upsoarings,  and 
baser  degradation  of  the  soul ;  in  short,  a  more  per 
plexing  amalgamation  of  vice  and  virtue  than  we  wit 
ness  in  the  outward  world.  Decency  and  external  j 
conscience  often  produce  a  far  fairer  outside  than  is/ 
warranted  by  the  stains  within.  And  be  it  owned,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  a  man  seldom  repeats  to  his  near 
est  friend,  any  more  than  he  realizes  in  act,  the  purest 
wishes,  which,  at  some  blessed  time  or  other,  have 
arisen  from  the  depths  of  his  nature  and  witnessed  for 
him  in  this  volume.  Yet  there  is  enough  on  every  leaf 
to  make  the  good  man  shudder  for  his  own  wild  and 
idle  wishes,  as  well  as  for  the  sinner,  whose  whole  life 
is  the  incarnation  of  a  wicked  desire. 

But  again  the  door  is  opened,  and  we  hear  the  tu 
multuous  stir  of  the  world  —  a  deep  and  awful  sound, 
expressing  in  another  form  some  portion  of  what  is 
written  in  the  volume  that  lies  before  the  Man  of  Intel 
ligence.  A  grandfatherly  personage  tottered  hastily 
into  the  office,  with  such  an  earnestness  in  his  infirm 
alacrity  that  his  white  hair  floated  backward  as  he  hur 
ried  up  to  the  desk,  while  his  dim  eyes  caught  a  mo 
mentary  lustre  from  his  vehemence  of  purpose.  This 
venerable  figure  explained  that  he  was  in  search  of 
To-Morrow. 

"  I  have  spent  all  my  life  in  pursuit  of  it,"  added  the 
sage  old  gentleman,  "being  assured  that  To-Morrow 


378          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

has  some  vast  benefit  or  other  in  store  for  me.  But  I 
am  now  getting  a  little  in  years,  and  must  make  haste ; 
for,  unless  I  overtake  To-Morrow  soon,  I  begin  to  be 
afraid  it  will  finally  escape  me." 

"  This  fugitive  To-Morrow,  my  venerable  friend," 
said  the  Man  of  Intelligence,  "  is  a  stray  child  of  Time, 
and  is  flying  from  his  father  into  the  region  of  the  in 
finite.  Continue  your  pursuit,  and  you  will  doubtless 
come  up  with  him  ;  but  as  to  the  earthly  gifts  which 
you  expect,  he  has  scattered  them  all  among  a  throng 
of  Yesterdays." 

Obliged  to  content  himself  with  this  enigmatical 
response,  the  grandsire  hastened  forth  with  a  quick 
clatter  of  his  staff  upon  the  floor ;  and,  as  he  disap 
peared,  a  little  boy  scampered  through  the  door  in 
chase  of  a  butterfly  which  had  got  astray  amid  the 
barren  sunshine  of  the  city.  Had  the  old  gentleman 
been  shrewder,  he  might  have  detected  To-Morrow 
under  the  semblance  of  that  gaudy  insect.  The  golden 
butterfly  glistened  through  the  shadowy  apartment,  and 
brushed  its  wings  against  the  Book  of  Wishes,  and 
fluttered  forth  again  with  the  child  still  in  pursuit. 

A  man  now  entered,  in  neglected  attire,  with  the 
aspect  of  a  thinker,  but  somewhat  too  rough-hewn  and 
brawny  for  a  scholar.  His  face  was  full  of  sturdy 
vigor,  with  some  finer  and  keener  attribute  beneath. 
Though  harsh  at  first,  it  was  tempered  with  the  glow 
of  a  large,  warm  heart,  which  had  force  enough  to 
heat  his  powerful  intellect  through  and  through.  He 
advanced  to  the  Intelligencer  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
glance  of  such  stern  sincerity  that  perhaps  few  secrets 
were  beyond  its  scope. 

"I  seek  for  Truth,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  precisely  the  most  rare  pursuit  that  has  ever 


THE  INTELLIGENCE    OFFICE.  379 

come  under  my  cognizance,"  replied  the  Intelligencer, 
as  he  made  the  new  inscription  in  his  volume.  "  Most 
men  seek  to  impose  some  cunning  falsehood  upon 
themselves  for  truth.  But  I  can  lend  no  help  to  your 
researches.  You  must  achieve  the  miracle  for  your 
self.  At  some  fortunate  moment  you  may  find  Truth 
at  your  side,  or  perhaps  she  may  be  mistily  discerned 
far  in  advance,  or  possibly  behind  you." 

"  Not  behind  me,"  said  the  seeker  ;  "  for  I  have  left 
nothing  on  my  track  without  a  thorough  investigation. 
She  flits  before  me,  passing  now  through  a  naked  soli 
tude,  and  now  mingling  with  the  throng  of  a  popular 
assembly,  and  now  writing  with  the  pen  of  a  French 
philosopher,  and  now  standing  at  the  altar  of  an  old 
cathedral,  in  the  guise  of  a  Catholic  priest,  performing 
the  high  mass.  Oh  weary  search !  But  I  must  not 
falter ;  and  surely  my  heart-deep  quest  of  Truth  shall 
avail  at  last." 

He  paused  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  Intelligencer 
with  a  depth  of  investigation  that  seemed  to  hold  com 
merce  with  the  inner  nature  of  this  being,  wholly  re 
gardless  of  his  external  development. 

"  And  what  are  you?  "  said  he.  "It  will  not  satisfy 
me  to  point  to  this  fantastic  show  of  an  Intelligence 
Office  and  this  mockery  of  business.  Tell  me  what 
is  beneath  it,  and  what  your  real  agency  in  life,  and 
your  influence  upon  mankind." 

"Yours  is  a  mind,"  answered  the  Man  of  Intelli 
gence,  "  before  which  the  forms  and  fantasies  that  con 
ceal  the  inner  idea  from  the  multitude  vanish  at  once 
and  leave  the  naked  reality  beneath.  Know,  then,  the 
secret.  My  agency  in  worldly  action,  my  connection 
with  the  press,  and  tumult,  and  intermingling,  and  de 
velopment  of  human  affairs,  is  merely  delusive.  The 


380  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

desire  of  man's  heart  does  for  him  whatever  I  seem  to 
do.  I  am  no  minister  of  action,  but  the  Recording 
Spirit." 

What  further  secrets  were  then  spoken  remains  a 
mystery,  inasmuch  as  the  roar  of  the  city,  the  bustle 
of  human  business,  the  outcry  of  the  jostling  masses, 
the  rush  and  tumult  of  man's  life  in  its  noisy  and  brief 
career,  arose  so  high  that  it  drowned  the  words  of  these 
two  talkers;  and  whether  they  stood  talking  in  the 
moon,  or  in  Vanity  Fair,  or  in  a  city  of  this  actua) 
world,  is  more  than  I  can  say. 


ROGEE  MALVIN'S  BURIAL. 

ONE  of  the  few  incidents  of  Indian  warfare  natur 
ally  susceptible  of  the  moonlight  of  romance  was  that 
expedition  undertaken  for  the  defence  of  the  frontiers 
in  the  year  1725,  which  resulted  in  the  well-remem 
bered  "  Lo veil's  Fight."  Imagination,  by  casting  cer 
tain  circumstances  judicially  into  the  shade,  may  see 
much  to  admire  in  the  heroism  of  a  little  band  who 
gave  battle  to  twice  their  number  in  the  heart  of  the 
enemy's  country.  The  open  bravery  displayed  by 
both  parties  was  in  accordance  with  civilized  ideas  of 
valor ;  and  chivalry  itself  might  not  blush  to  record 
the  deeds  of  one  or  two  individuals.  The  battle, 
though  so  fatal  to  those  who  fought,  was  not  unfor 
tunate  in  its  consequences  to  the  country ;  for  it  broke 
the  strength  of  a  tribe  and  conduced  to  the  peace 
which  subsisted  during  several  ensuing  years.  His 
tory  and  tradition  are  unusually  minute  in  their  me 
morials  of  this  affair;  and  the  captain  of  a  scouting 
party  of  frontier  men  has  acquired  as  actual  a  mili 
tary  renown  as  many  a  victorious  leader  of  thousands. 
Some  of  the  incidents  contained  in  the  following  pages 
will  be  recognized,  notwithstanding  the  substitution  of 
fictitious  names,  by  such  as  have  heard,  from  old  men's 
lips,  the  fate  of  the  few  combatants  who  were  in  a 
condition  to  retreat  after  "  Lovell's  Fight." 

The  early  sunbeams  hovered  cheerfully  upon  the 
tree-tops,  beneath  which  two  weary  and  wounded  men 


382          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

had  stretched  their  limbs  the  night  before.  Their  bed 
of  withered  oak  leaves  was  strewn  upon  the  small  level 
space,  at  the  foot  of  a  rock,  situated  near  the  summit 
of  one  of  the  gentle  swells  by  which  the  face  of  the 
country  is  there  diversified.  T^fi  inass  of  granite, 
rearing  its  smooth,  flat  surface  fifteen  or  twenty  feet 
above  their  heads,  was  not  unlike  a  gigantic  grave 
stone,  upon  which  the  veins  seemed  to  form  an  inscrip 
tion  in  forgotten  characters.  On  a  tract  of  several 
acres  around  this  rock,  oaks  and  other  hard-wood  trees 
had  supplied  the  place  of  the  pines,  which  were  the 
usual  growth  of  the  land ;  and  a  young  and  vigorous 
sapling  stood  close  beside  the  travellers. 

The  severe  wound  of  the  elder  man  had  probably 
deprived  him  of  sleep ;  for,  so  soon  as  the  first  ray  of 
sunshine  rested  on  the  top  of  the  highest  tree,  he  reared 
himself  painfully  from  his  recumbent  posture  and  sat 
erect.  The  deep  lines  of  his  countenance  and  the 
scattered  gray  of  his  hair  marked  him  as  past  the 
middle  age  ;  but  his  muscular  frame  would,  but  for  the 
effects  of  his  wound,  have  been  as  capable  of  sustain 
ing  fatigue  as  in  the  early  vigor  of  life.  Languor  and 
exhaustion  now  sat  upon  his  haggard  features  ;  and  the 
despairing  glance  which  he  sent  forward  through  the 
depths  of  the  forest  proved  his  own  conviction  that  his 
pilgrimage  was  at  an  end.  He  next  turned  his  eyes  to 
the  companion  who  reclined  by  his  side.  The  youth 
— -  for  he  had  scarcely  attained  the  years  of  manhood  — 
lay,  with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  in  the  embrace  of  an 
unquiet  sleep,  which  a  thrill  of  pain  from  his  wounds 
seemed  each  moment  on  the  point  of  breaking.  His 
right  hand  grasped  a  musket ;  and,  to  judge  from  the 
violent  action  of  his  features,  his  slumbers  were  bring 
ing  back  a  vision  of  the  conflict  of  which  he  was  one 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  383 

of  the  few  survivors.  A  shout  —  deep  and  loud  in  his 
dreaming  fancy  —  found  its  way  in  an  imperfect  mur 
mur  to  his  lips ;  and,  s.tarting  even  at  the  slight  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  he  suddenly  awoke.  The  first  act 
of  reviving  recollection  was  to  make  anxious  inquiries 
respecting  the  condition  of  his  wounded  fellow-travel 
ler.  The  latter  shook  his  head. 

"  Reuben,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "  this  rock  beneath 
which  we  sit  will  serve  for  an  old  hunter's  gravestone* 
There  is  many  and  many  a  long  mile  of  howling  wil 
derness  before  us  yet ;  nor  would  it  avail  me  anything 
if  the  smoke  of  my  own  chimney  were  but  on  the 
other  side  of  that  swell  of  land.  The  Indian  bullet 
was  deadlier  than  I  thought." 

"You  are  weary  with  our  three  days'  travel,"  replied 
the  youth,  "  and  a  little  longer  rest  will  recruit  you.  Sit 
you  here  while  I  search  the  woods  for  the  herbs  and 
roots  that  must  be  our  sustenance  ;  and,  having  eaten, 
you  shall  lean  on  me,  and  we  will  turn  our  faces  home 
ward.  I  doubt  not  that,  with  my  help,  you  can  attain 
to  some  one  of  the  frontier  garrisons." 

"  There  is  not  two  days'  life  in  me,  Reuben,"  said 
the  other,  calmly,  "and  I  will  no  longer  burden  you 
with  my  useless  body,  when  you  can  scarcely  support 
your  own.  Your  wounds  are  deep  and  your  strength 
is  failing  fast ;  yet,  if  you  hasten  onward  alone,  you 
may  be  preserved.  For  me  there  is  no  hope,  and  I 
will  await  death  here." 

"If  it  must  be  so,  I  will  remain  and  watch  by  you," 
said  Reuben,  resolutely. 

"  No,  my  son,  no,"  rejoined  his  companion.  "  Let 
the  wish  of  a  dying  man  have  weight  with  you ;  give 
me  one  grasp  of  your  hand,  and  get  you  hence. 
Think  you  that  my  last  moments  will  be  eased  by  the 


384          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

thought  that  I  leave  you  to  die  a  more  lingering  death  ? 
I  have  loved  you  like  a  father,  Reuben ;  and  at  a  time 
like  this  I  should  have  something  of  a  father's  author 
ity.  I  charge  you  to  be  gone  that  I  may  die  in  peace." 

"And  because  you  have  been  a  father  to  me,  should 
I  therefore  leave  you  to  perish  and  to  lie  unburied  in 
the  wilderness  ?  "  exclaimed  the  youth.  "  No ;  if  your 
end  be  in  truth  approaching,  I  will  watch  by  you  and 
receive  your  parting  words.  I  will  dig  a  grave  here  by 
the  rock,  in  which,  if  my  weakness  overcome  me,  we 
will  rest  together;  or,  if  Heaven  gives  me  strength, 
I  will  seek  my  way  home." 

"  In  the  cities  and  wherever  men  dwell,"  replied  the 
other,  "  they  bury  their  dead  in  the  earth ;  they  hide 
them  from  the  sight  of  the  living ;  but  here,  where  no 
step  may  pass  perhaps  for  a  hundred  years,  wherefore 
should  I  not  rest  beneath  the  open  sky,  covered  onlj 
by  the  oak  leaves  when  the  autumn  winds  shall  stre\\ 
them  ?  And  for  a  monument,  here  is  this  gray  rock,  on 
which  my  dying  hand  shall  carve  the  name  of  Rogei 
Malvin  ;  and  the  traveller  in  days  to  come  will  know 
that  here  sleeps  a  hunter  and  a  warrior.  Tarry  not, 
then,  for  a  folly  like  this,  but  hasten  away,  if  not  for 
your  own  sake,  for  hers  who  will  else  be  desolate." 

Malvin  spoke  the  last  few  words  in  a  faltering  voice, 
and  their  effect  upon  his  companion  was  strongly  visi 
ble.  They  reminded  him  that  there  were  other  and 
less  questionable  duties  than  that  of  sharing  the  fate 
of  a  man  whom  his  death  could  not  benefit.  Nor  can 
it  be  affirmed  that  no  selfish  feeling  strove  to  enter 
Reuben's  heart,  though  the  consciousness  made  him 
more  earnestly  resist  his  companion's  entreaties. 

"  How  terrible  to  wait  the  slow  approach  of  death  in 
this  solitude  !  "  exclaimed  he.  "  A  brave  man  does  not 


ROGER   MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  385 

shrink  in  the  battle ;  and,  when  friends  stand  round  the 
bed,  even  women  may  die  composedly  ;  but  here  "  — 

"  I  shall  not  shrink  even  here,  Reuben  Bourne,"  in 
terrupted  Malvin.  "  I  am  a  man  of  no  weak  heart, 
and,  if  I  were,  there  is  a  surer  support  than  that  of 
earthly  friends.  You  are  young,  and  life  is  dear  to 
you.  Your  last  moments  will  need  comfort  far  more 
than  mine  ;  and  when  you  have  laid  me  in  the  earth, 
and  are  alone,  and  night  is  settling  on  the  forest,  you 
will  feel  all  the  bitterness  of  the  death  that  may  now 
be  escaped.  But  I  will  urge  no  selfish  motive  to  your 
generous  nature.  Leave  me  for  my  sake,  that,  having 
said  a  prayer  for  your  safety,  I  may  have  space  to  set 
tle  my  account  undisturbed  by  worldly  sorrows." 

"  And  your  daughter,  —  how  shall  I  dare  to  meet 
her  eye  ?  "  exclaimed  Reuben.  "  She  will  ask  the  fate 
of  her  father,  whose  life  I  vowed  to  defend  with  my 
own.  Must  I  tell  her  that  he  travelled  three  days' 
march  with  me  from  the  field  of  battle  and  that  then 
I  left  him  to  perish  in  the  wilderness  ?  Were  it  not 
better  to  lie  down  and  die  by  your  side  than  to  return 
safe  and  say  this  to  Dorcas  ?  " 

"  Tell  my  daughter,"  said  Roger  Malvin,  "  that, 
though  yourself  sore  wounded,  and  weak,  and  weary, 
you  led  my  tottering  footsteps  many  a  mile,  and  left 
me  only  at  my  earnest  entreaty,  because  I  would  not 
have  your  blood  upon  my  soul.  Tell  her  that  through 
pain  and  danger  you  were  faithful,  and  that,  if  your 
lifeblood  could  have  saved  me,  it  would  have  flowed 
to  its  last  drop  ;  and  tell  her  that  you  will  be  some 
thing  dearer  than  a  father,  and  that  my  blessing  is 
with  you  both,  and  that  my  dying  eyes  can  see  a  long 
and  pleasant  path  in  which  you  will  journey  to 
gether." 

VOL.  II.  25 


886  MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

As  Malvin  spoke  he  almost  raised  himself  from  the 
ground,  and  the  energy  of  his  concluding  words  seemed 
to  fill  the  wild  and  lonely  forest  with  a  vision  of  hap 
piness  ;  but,  when  he  sank  exhausted  upon  his  bed  of 
oak  leaves,  the  light  which  had  kindled  in  Reuben's 
eye  was  quenched.  He  felt  as  if  it  were  both  sin  and 
folly  to  think  of  happiness  at  such  a  moment.  His 
companion  watched  his  changing  countenance,  and 
sought  with  generous  art  to  wile  him  to  his  own  good. 

"  Perhaps  I  deceive  myself  in  regard  to  the  time  I 
have  to  live,"  he  resumed.  "It  may  be  that,  with 
speedy  assistance,  I  might  recover  of  my  wound.  The 
foremost  fugitives  must,  ere  this,  have  carried  tidings 
of  our  fatal  battle  to  the  frontiers,  and  parties  will  be 
out  to  succor  those  in  like  condition  with  ourselves. 
Should  you  meet  one  of  these  and  guide  them  hither, 
who  can  tell  but  that  I  may  sit  by  my  own  fireside 
again?" 

A  mournful  smile  strayed  across  the  features  of  the 
dying  man  as  he  insinuated  that  unfounded  hope,  — 
which,  however,  was  not  without  its  effect  on  Reuben. 
No  merely  selfish  motive,  nor  even  the  desolate  condi 
tion  of  Dorcas,  could  have  induced  him  to  desert  his 
companion  at  such  a  moment  —  but  his  wishes  seized 
on  the  thought  that  Malvin's  life  might  be  preserved, 
and  his  sanguine  nature  heightened  almost  to  cer 
tainty  the  remote  possibility  of  procuring  human  aid. 

"  Surely  there  is  reason,  weighty  reason,  to  hope 
that  friends  are  not  far  distant,"  he  said,  half  aloud. 
"  There  fled  one  coward,  un wounded,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  fight,  and  most  probably  he  made  good  speed. 
Every  true  man  on  the  frontier  would  shoulder  his 
musket  at  the  news  ;  and,  though  no  party  may  range 
BO  far  into  the  woods  as  this,  I  shall  perhaps  encountet 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  387 

them  in  one  day's  march.  Counsel  me  faithfully,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Malvin,  in  distrust  of  his  own  mo 
tives.  "  Were  your  situation  mine,  would  you  desert 
me  while  life  remained  ?  " 

"  It  is  now  twenty  years,"  replied  Roger  Malvin,  — 
sighing,  however,  as  he  secretly  acknowledged  the  wide 
dissimilarity  between  the  two  cases,  —  "it  is  now 
twenty  years  since  I  escaped  with  one  dear  friend 
from  Indian  captivity  near  Montreal.  We  journeyed 
many  days  through  the  woods,  till  at  length  overcome 
with  hunger  and  weariness,  my  friend  lay  down  and 
besought  me  to  leave  him  ;  for  he  knew  that,  if  I  re 
mained,  we  both  must  perish  ;  and,  with  but  little  hope 
of  obtaining  succor,  I  heaped  a  pillow  of  dry  leaves 
beneath  his  head  and  hastened  on." 

"  And  did  you  return  in  time  to  save  him  ?  "  asked 
Reuben,  hanging  on  Malvin's  words  as  if  they  were  to 
be  prophetic  of  his  own  success. 

"  I  did,"  answered  the  other.  "  I  came  upon  the 
camp  of  a  hunting  party  before  sunset  of  the  same  day. 
I  guided  them  to  the  spot  where  my  comrade  was  ex 
pecting  death  ;  and  he  is  now  a  hale  and  hearty  man 
upon  his  own  farm,  far  within  the  frontiers,  while  I  lie 
wounded  here  in  the  depths  of  the  wilderness." 

This  example,  powerful  in  affecting  Reuben's  decis 
ion,  was  aided,  unconsciously  to  himself,  by  the  hid 
den  strength  of  many  another  motive.  Roger  Malvin 
perceived  that  the  victory  was  nearly  won. 

"  Now,  go,  my  son,  and  Heaven  prosper  you  !  "  he 
said.  "Turn  not  back  with  your  friends  when  you 
meet  them,  lest  your  wounds  and  weariness  overcome 
you ;  but  send  hitherward  two  or  three,  that  may  be 
spared,  to  search  for  me  ;  and  believe  me,  Reuben,  my 
heart  will  be  lighter  with  every  step  you  take  towards 


388          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

home."  Yet  there  was,  perhaps,  a  change  both  in  his 
countenance  and  voice  as  he  spoke  thus  ;  for,  after  all, 
it  was  a  ghastly  fate  to  be  left  expiring  in  the  wilder 
ness. 

Reuben  Bourne,  but  half  convinced  that  he  was  act 
ing  rightly,  at  length  raised  himself  from  the  ground 
and  prepared  himself  for  his  departure.  And  first, 
though  contrary  to  Malvin's  wishes,  he  collected  a  stock 
of  roots  and  herbs,  which  had  been  their  only  food  dur 
ing  the  last  two  days.  This  useless  supply  he  placed 
within  reach  of  the  dying  man,  for  whom,  also,  he  swept 
together  a  bed  of  dry  oak  leaves.  Then  climbing  to 
the  summit  of  the  rock,  which  on  one  side  was  rough 
and  broken,  he  bent  the  oak  sapling  downward,  and 
bound  his  handkerchief  to  the  topmost  branch.  This 
precaution  was  not  unnecessary  to  direct  any  who  might 
come  in  search  of  Malvin ;  for  every  part  of  the  rock, 
except  its  broad,  smooth  front,  was  concealed  at  a  lit 
tle  distance  by  the  dense  undergrowth  of  the  forest. 
The  handkerchief  had  been  the  bandage  of  a  wound 
upon  Reuben's  arm  ;  and,  as  he  bound  it  to  the  tree, 
he  vowed  by  the  blood  that  stained  it  that  he  would  re 
turn,  either  to  save  his  companion's  life  or  to  lay  his 
body  in  the  grave.  He  then  descended,  and  stood, 
with  downcast  eyes,  to  receive  Roger  Malvin's  part 
ing  words. 

The  experience  of  the  latter  suggested  much  and 
minute  advice  respecting  the  youth's  journey  through 
the  trackless  forest.  Upon  this  subject  he  spoke  with 
calm  earnestness,  as  if  he  were  sending  Reuben  to  the 
battle  or  the  chase  while  he  himself  remained  secure 
at  home,  and  not  as  if  the  human  countenance  that 
was  about  to  leave  him  were  the  last  he  would  ever 
behold.  But  his  firmness  was  shaken  before  he  con 
cluded. 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  389 

"  Carry  my  blessing  to  Dorcas,  and  say  that  my  last 
prayer  shall  be  for  her  and  you.  Bid  her  to  have  no 
hard  thoughts  because  you  left  me  here,"  —  Eeuben's 
heart  smote  him,  —  "  for  that  your  life  would  not  have 
weighed  with  you  if  its  sacrifice  could  have  done  me 
good.  She  will  marry  you  after  she  has  mourned  a 
little  while  for  her  father ;  and  Heaven  grant  you  long 
and  happy  days,  and  may  your  children's  children  stand 
round  your  death  bed !  And,  Reuben,"  added  he,  as 
the  weakness  of  mortality  made  its  way  at  last,  "  re 
turn,  when  your  wounds  are  healed  and  your  weari 
ness  refreshed,  — return  to  this  wild  rock,  and  lay  my 
bones  in  the  grave,  and  say  a  prayer  over  them." 

An  almost  superstitious  regard,  arising  perhaps  from 
the  customs  of  the  Indians,  whose  war  was  with  the 
dead  as  well  as  the  living,  was  paid  by  the  frontier  in 
habitants  to  the  rites  of  sepulture ;  and  there  are  many 
instances  of  the  sacrifice  of  life  in  the  attempt  to  bury 
those  who  had  fallen  by  the  "  sword  of  the  wilderness." 
Reuben,  therefore,  felt  the  full  importance  of  the  prom 
ise  which  he  most  solemnly  made  to  return  and  per 
form  Roger  Malvin's  obsequies.  It  was  remarkable 
that  the  latter,  speaking  his  whole  heart  in  his  parting 
words,  no  longer  endeavored  to  persuade  the  youth  that 
even  the  speediest  succor  might  avail  to  the  preserva 
tion  of  his  life.  Reuben  was  internally  convinced  that 
he  should  see  Malvin's  Ming  face  no  more.  His  gen 
erous  nature  would  fain  have  delayed  him,  at  whatever 
risk,  till  the  dying  scene  were  past ;  but  the  desire  of 
existence  and  the  hope  of  happiness  had  strengthened 
in  his  heart,  and  he  was  unable  to  resist  them. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Roger  Malvin,  having  listened 
to  Reuben's  promise.  "  Go,  and  God  speed  you !  " 

The  youth  pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  turned,  and 


890          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

was  departing.  His  slow  and  faltering  steps,  however, 
had  borne  him  but  a  little  way  before  Malvin's  voice 
recalled  him. 

"  Reuben,  Reuben,"  said  he,  faintly ;  and  Reuben 
returned  and  knelt  down  by  the  dying  man. 

"  Raise  me,  and  let  me  lean  against  the  rock,"  was 
his  last  request.  "My  face  will  be  turned  towards 
home,  and  I  shall  see  you  a  moment  longer  as  you 
pass  among  the  trees." 

Reuben,  having  made  the  desired  alteration  in  his 
companion's  posture,  again  began  his  solitary  pilgrim 
age.  He  walked  more  hastily  at  first  than  was  consis 
tent  with  his  strength;  for  a  sort  of  guilty  feeling, 
which  sometimes  torments  men  in  their  most  justifiable 
acts,  caused  him  to  seek  concealment  from  Malvin's 
eyes ;  but  after  he  had  trodden  far  upon  the  rustling 
forest  leaves  he  crept  back,  impelled  by  a  wild  and 
painful  curiosity,  and,  sheltered  by  the  earthy  roots  of 
an  uptorn  tree,  gazed  earnestly  at  the  desolate  man. 
The  morning  sun  was  unclouded,  and  the  trees  and 
shrubs  imbibed  the  sweet  air  of  the  month  of  May ; 
yet  there  seemed  a  gloom  on  Nature's  face,  as  if  she 
sympathized  with  mortal  pain  and  sorrow.  Roger 
Malvin's  hands  were  uplifted  in  a  fervent  prayer,  some 
of  the  words  of  which  stole  through  the  stillness  of  the 
woods  and  entered  Reuben's  heart,  torturing  it  with  an 
unutterable  pang.  They  were  the  broken  accents  of  a 
petition  for  his  own  happiness  and  that  of  Dorcas  ;  and, 
as  the  youth  listened,  conscience,  or  something  in  its 
similitude,  pleaded  strongly  with  him  to  return  and  lie 
down  again  by  the  rock.  He  felt  how  hard  was  the 
doom  of  the  kind  and  generous  being  whom  he  had 
deserted  in  his  extremity.  Death  would  come  like  the 
slow  approach  of  a  corpse,  stealing  gradually  towards 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  391 

him  through  the  forest,  and  showing  its  ghastly  and 
motionless  features  from  behind  a  nearer  and  yet  a 
nearer  tree.  But  such  must  have  been  Reuben's  own 
fate  had  he  tarried  another  sunset ;  and  who  shall  im 
pute  blame  to  him  if  he  shrink  from  so  useless  a  sacri 
fice?  As  he  gave  a  parting  look,  a  breeze  waved  the 
little  banner  upon  the  sapling  oak  and  reminded  Reu 
ben  of  his  vow. 

Many  circumstances  combined  to  retard  the  wounded 
traveller  in  his  way  to  the  frontiers.  On  the  second 
day  the  clouds,  gathering  densely  over  the  sky,  pre 
cluded  the  possibility  of  regulating  his  course  by  the 
position  of  the  sun  :  and  he  knew  not  but  that  every 
effort  of  his  almost  exhausted  strength  was  removing 
him  farther  from  the  home  he  sought.  His  scanty  sus 
tenance  was  supplied  by  the  berries  and  other  sponta 
neous  products  of  the  forest.  Herds  of  deer,  it  is  true, 
sometimes  bounded  past  him,  and  partridges  frequently 
whirred  up  before  his  footsteps ;  but  his  ammunition 
had  been  expended  in  the  fight,  and  he  had  no  means 
of  slaying  them.  His  wounds,  irritated  by  the  constant 
exertion  in  which  lay  the  only  hope  of  life,  wore  away 
his  strength  and  at  intervals  confused  his  reason.  But, 
even  in  the  wanderings  of  intellect,  Reuben's  young 
heart  clung  strongly  to  existence ;  and  it  was  only 
through  absolute  incapacity  of  motion  that  he  at  last  sank 
down  beneath  a  tree,  compelled  there  to  await  death. 

In  this  situation  he  was  discovered  by  a  party  who, 
upon  the  first  intelligence  of  the  fight,  had  been  de 
spatched  to  the  relief  of  the  survivors.  They  conveyed 
him  to  the  nearest  settlement,  which  chanced  to  be  that 
of  his  own  residence. 

Dorcas,  in  the  simplicity  of  the  olden  time,  watched  by 


892          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

the  bedside  of  her  wounded  lover,  and  administered  all 
those  comforts  that  are  in  the  sole  gift  of  woman's  heart 
and  hand.  During  several  days  Reuben's  recollection 
strayed  drowsily  among  the  perils  and  hardships  through 
which  he  had  passed,  and  he  was  incapable  of  return 
ing  definite  answers  to  the  inquiries  with  which  many 
were  eager  to  harass  him.  No  authentic  particulars 
of  the  battle  had  yet  been  circulated ;  nor  could  moth 
ers,  wives,  and  children  tell  whether  their  loved  ones 
were  detained  by  captivity  or  by  the  stronger  chain  of 
death.  Dorcas  nourished  her  apprehensions  in  silence 
till  one  afternoon  when  Reuben  awoke  from  an  unquiet 
sleep,  and  seemed  to  recognize  her  more  perfectly  than 
at  any  previous  time.  She  saw  that  his  intellect  had 
become  composed,  and  she  could  no  longer  restrain  her 
filial  anxiety. 

"  My  father,  Reuben  ?  "  she  began  ;  but  the  change 
in  her  lover's  countenance  made  her  pause. 

The  youth  shrank  as  if  with  a  bitter  pain,  and  the 
blood  gushed  vividly  into  his  wan  and  hollow  cheeks. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  cover  his  face  ;  but,  appar 
ently  with  a  desperate  effort,  he  half  raised  himself 
and  spoke  vehemently,  defending  himself  against  an 
imaginary  accusation. 

"  Your  father  was  sore  wounded  in  the  battle,  Dor 
cas  ;  and  he  bade  me  not  burden  myself  with  him,  but 
only  to  lead  him  to  the  lakeside,  that  he  might  quench 
his  thirst  and  die.  But  I  would  not  desert  the  old  man 
in  his  extremity,  and,  though  bleeding  myself,  I  sup 
ported  him ;  I  gave  him  half  my  strength,  and  led  him 
away  with  me.  For  three  days  we  journeyed  on  to 
gether,  and  your  father  was  sustained  beyond  my  hopes, 
but,  awaking  at  sunrise  on  the  fourth  day,  I  found  him 
faint  and  exhausted ;  he  was  unable  to  proceed  ;  his 
life  had  ebbed  away  fast ;  and  "  — 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  398 

"  He  died  !  "  exclaimed  Dorcas,  faintly. 

Eeuben  felt  it  impossible  to  acknowledge  that  hia 
selfish  love  of  life  had  hurried  him  away  before  her 
father's  fate  was  decided.  He  spoke  not;  he  only 
bowed  his  head ;  and,  between  shame  and  exhaustion, 
sank  back  and  hid  his  face  in  the  pillow.  Dorcas  wept 
when  her  fears  were  thus  confirmed ;  but  the  shock,  as 
it  had  been  long  anticipated,  was  on  that  account  the 
less  violent. 

"  You  dug  a  grave  for  my  poor  father  in  the  wilder 
ness,  Reuben  ? '"  was  the  question  by  which  her  filial 
piety  manifested  itself. 

"  My  hands  were  weak ;  but  I  did  what  I  could," 
replied  the  youth  in  a  smothered  tone.  "  There  stands 
a  noble  tombstone  above  his  head;  and  I  would  to 
Heaven  I  slept  as  soundly  as  he !  " 

Dorcas,  perceiving  the  wildness  of  his  latter  words, 
inquired  no  further  at  the  time ;  but  her  heart  found 
ease  in  the  thought  that  Roger  Malvin  had  not  lacked 
such  funeral  rites  as  it  was  possible  to  bestow.  The 
tale  of  Reuben's  courage  and  fidelity  lost  nothing  when 
she  communicated  it  to  her  friends  ;  and  the  poor 
youth,  tottering  from  his  sick  chamber  to  breathe  the 
sunny  air,  experienced  from  every  tongue  the  miserable 
and  humiliating  torture  of  unmerited  praise.  All  ac 
knowledged  that  he  might  worthily  demand  the  hand  of 
the  fair  maiden  to  whose  father  he  had  been  "  faithful 
unto  death ;  "  and,  as  my  tale  is  not  of  love,  it  shall 
suffice  to  say  that  in  the  space  of  a  few  months  Reu 
ben  became  the  husband  of  Dorcas  Malvin.  During 
the  marriage  ceremony  the  bride  was  covered  with 
blushes,  but  the  bridegroom's  face  was  pale. 

There  was  now  in  the  breast  of  Reuben  Bourne  an 
incommunicable  thought  —  something  which  he  was  to 


394  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

conceal  most  heedfully  from  her  whom  he  most  loved 
and  trusted.  He  regretted,  deeply  and  bitterly,  the 
moral  cowardice  that  had  restrained  his  words  when 
he  was  about  to  disclose  the  truth  to  Dorcas ;  bu* 
pride,  the  fear  of  losing  her  affection,  the  dread  of 
universal  scorn,  forbade  him  to  rectify  this  falsehood. 
He  felt  that  for  leaving  Roger  Malvin  he  deserved 
no  censure.  His  presence,  the  gratuitous  sacrifice  of 
his  own  life,  would  have  added  only  another  and  a 
needless  agony  to  the  last  moments  of  the  dying  man ; 
but  concealment  had  imparted  to  a  justifiable  act 
much  of  the  secret  effect  of  guilt ;  and  Reuben,  while 
reason  told  him  that  he  had  done  right,  experienced 
in  no  small  degree  the  mental  horrors  which  punish 
the  perpetrator  of  undiscovered  crime.  By  a  certain 
association  of  ideas,  he  at  times  almost  imagined  him 
self  a  murderer.  For  years,  also,  a  thought  would 
occasionally  recur,  which,  though  he  perceived  all  its 
folly  and  extravagance,  he  had  not  power  to  banish 
from  his  mind.  It  was  a  haunting  and  torturing  fan 
cy  that  his  father-in-law  was  yet  sitting  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock,  on  the  withered  forest  leaves,  alive,  and 
awaiting  his  pledged  assistance.  These  mental  decep 
tions,  however,  came  and  went,  nor  did  he  ever  mis 
take  them  for  realities  ;  but  in  the  calmest  and  clear 
est  moods  of  his  mind  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  a 
deep  vow  unredeemed,  and  that  an  unburied  corpse 
was  calling  to  him  out  of  the  wilderness.  Yet  such 
was  the  consequence  of  his  prevarication  that  he  could 
not  obey  the  call.  It  was  now  too  late  to  require  the 
assistance  of  Roger  Malvin's  friends  in  performing 
his  long  -  deferred  sepulture;  and  superstitious  fears, 
of  which  none  were  more  susceptible  than  the  peo« 
pie  of  the  outward  settlements,  forbade  Reuben  to  go 


ROGER  HALVINGS  BURIAL.  395 

alone.  Neither  did  he  know  where  in  the  pathless 
and  illimitable  forest  to  seek  that  smooth  and  lettered 
rock  at  the  base  of  which  the  body  lay :  his  remem 
brance  of  every  portion  of  his  travel  thence  was  indis 
tinct,  and  the  latter  part  had  left  no  impression  upon 
his  mind.  There  was,  however,  a  continual  impulse, 
a  voice  audible  only  to  himself,  commanding  him  to 
go  forth  and  redeem  his  vow ;  and  he  had  a  strange' 
impression  that,  were  he  to  make  the  trial,  he  would 
be  led  straight  to  Malvin's  bones.  But  year  after 
year  that  summons,  unheard  but  felt,  was  disobeyed. 
His  one  secret  thought  became  like  a  chain  binding 
down  his  spirit  and  like  a  serpent  gnawing  into  his 
heart ;  and  he  was  transformed  into  a  sad  and  down 
cast  yet  irritable  man. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years  after  their  marriage 
changes  began  to  be  visible  in  the  external  prosperity 
of  Reuben  and  Dorcas.  The  only  riches  of  the  former 
had  been  his  stout  heart  and  strong  arm  ;  but  the  lat 
ter,  her  father's  sole  heiress,  had  made  her  husband 
master  of  a  farm,  under  older  cultivation,  larger,  and 
better  stocked  than  most  of  the  frontier  establishments. 
Reuben  Bourne,  however,  was  a  neglectful  husband 
man  ;  and,  while  the  lands  of  the  other  settlers  became 
annually  more  fruitful,  his  deteriorated  in  the  same 
proportion.  The  discouragements  to  agriculture  were 
greatly  lessened  by  the  cessation  of  Indian  war,  dur 
ing  which  men  held  the  plough  in  one  hand  and  the 
musket  in  the  other,  and  were  fortunate  if  the  products 
of  their  dangerous  labor  were  not  destroyed,  either  in 
the  field  or  in  the  barn,  by  the  savage  enemy.  But 
Reuben  did  not  profit  by  the  altered  condition  of  the 
country;  nor  can  it  be  denied  that  his  intervals  of 
industrious  attention  to  his  affairs  were  but  scantily 


396          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

rewarded  with  success.  The  irritability  by  which  he 
had  recently  become  distinguished  was  another  cause 
of  his  declining  prosperity,  as  it  occasioned  frequent 
quarrels  in  his  unavoidable  intercourse  with  the  neigh 
boring  settlers.  The  results  of  these  were  innumer 
able  lawsuits  ;  for  the  people  of  New  England,  in  the 
earliest  stages  and  wildest  circumstances  of  the  coun 
try,  adopted,  whenever  attainable,  the  legal  mode  of 
deciding  their  differences.  To  be  brief,  the  world  did 
not  go  well  with  Reuben  Bourne ;  and,  though  not 
till  many  years  after  his  marriage,  he  was  finally  a 
ruined  man,  with  but  one  remaining  expedient  against 
the  evil  fate  that  had  pursued  him.  He  was  to  throw 
sunlight  into  some  deep  recess  of  the  forest,  and  seek 
subsistence  from  the  virgin  bosom  of  the  wilderness. 

The  only  child  of  Reuben  and  Dorcas  was  a  son, 
now  arrived  at  the  age  of  fifteen  years,  beautiful  in 
youth,  and  giving  promise  of  a  glorious  manhood.  He 
was  peculiarly  qualified  for,  and  already  began  to  excel 
in,  the  wild  accomplishments  of  frontier  life.  His  foot 
was  fleet,  his  aim  true,  his  apprehension  quick,  his 
heart  glad  and  high ;  and  all  who  anticipated  the  re 
turn  of  Indian  war  spoke  of  Cyrus  Bourne  as  a  future 
leader  in  the  land.  The  boy  was  loved  by  his  father 
with  a  deep  and  silent  strength,  as  if  whatever  was 
good  and  happy  in  his  own  nature  had  been  transferred 
to  his  child,  carrying  his  affections  with  it.  Even  Dor 
cas,  though  loving  and  beloved,  was  far  less  dear  to 
him ;  for  Reuben's  secret  thoughts  and  insulated  emo 
tions  had  gradually  made  him  a  selfish  man,  and  he 
could  no  longer  love  deeply  except  where  he  saw  or 
imagined  some  reflection  or  likeness  of  his  own  mind. 
In  Cyrus  he  recognized  what  he  had  himself  been  in 
other  days ;  and  at  intervals  he  seemed  to  partake  of 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  397 

the  boy's  spirit,  and  to  be  revived  with  a  fresh  and 
happy  life.  Reuben  was  accompanied  by  his  son  in 
the  expedition,  for  the  purpose  of  selecting  a  tract  of 
land  and  felling  and  burning  the  timber,  which  nec 
essarily  preceded  the  removal  of  the  household  gods. 
Two  months  of  autumn  were  thus  occupied,  after  which 
Reuben  Bourne  and  his  young  hunter  returned  to  spend 
their  last  winter  in  the  settlements. 

It  was  early  in  the  month  of  May  that  the  little  fam 
ily  snapped  asunder  whatever  tendrils  of  affections  had 
clung  to  inanimate  objects,  and  bade  farewell  to  the 
few  who,  in  the  blight  of  fortune,  called  themselves 
their  friends.  The  sadness  of  the  parting  moment 
had,  to  each  of  the  pilgrims,  its  peculiar  alleviations. 
Reuben,  a  moody  man,  and  misanthropic  because  un 
happy,  strode  onward  with  his  usual  stern  brow  and 
downcast  eye,  feeling  few  regrets  and  disdaining  to  ac 
knowledge  any.  Dorcas,  while  she  wept  abundantly 
over  the  broken  ties  by  which  her  simple  and  affection 
ate  nature  had  bound  itself  to  everything,  felt  that  the 
inhabitants  of  her  inmost  heart  moved  on  with  her,  and 
that  all  else  would  be  supplied  wherever  she  might  go. 
And  the  boy  dashed  one  tear-drop  from  his  eye,  and 
thought  of  the  adventurous  pleasures  of  the  untrodden 
forest. 

Oh,  who,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  a  daydream,  has  not 
wished  that  he  were  a  wanderer  in  a  world  of  summer 
wilderness,  with  one  fair  and  gentle  being  hanging 
lightly  on  his  arm  ?  In  youth  his  free  and  exulting 
step  would  know  no  barrier  but  the  rolling  ocean  or  the 
snow-topped  mountains ;  calmer  manhood  would  choose 
a  home  where  Nature  had  strewn  a  double  wealth  in  the 
rale  of  some  transparent  stream ;  and  when  hoary  age, 


398         MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

after  long,  long  years  of  that  pure  life,  stole  on  and 
found  him  there,  it  would  find  him  the  father  of  a  race, 
the  patriarch  of  a  people,  the  founder  of  a  mighty  na 
tion  yet  to  be.  When  death,  like  the  sweet  sleep  which 
we  welcome  after  a  day  of  happiness,  came  over  him, 
his  far  descendants  would  mourn  over  the  venerated 
dust.  Enveloped  by  tradition  in  mysterious  attributes, 
the  men  of  future  generations  would  call  him  godlike ; 
and  remote  posterity  would  see  him  standing,  dimly 
glorious,  far  up  the  valley  of  a  hundred  centuries. 

The  tangled  and  gloomy  forest  through  which  the 
personages  of  my  tale  were  wandering  differed  widely 
from  the  dreamer's  land  of  fantasy;  yet  there  was 
something  in  their  way  of  life  that  Nature  asserted  as 
her  own,  and  the  gnawing  cares  which  went  with  them 
from  the  world  were  all  that  now  obstructed  their  hap 
piness.  One  stout  and  shaggy  steed,  the  bearer  of  all 
their  wealth,  did  not  shrink  from  the  added  weight  of 
Dorcas ;  although  her  hardy  breeding  sustained  her, 
during  the  latter  part  of  each  day's  journey,  by  her 
husband's  side.  Reuben  and  his  son,  their  muskets  on 
their  shoulders  and  their  axes  slung  behind  them,  kept 
an  unwearied  pace,  each  watching  with  a  hunter's  eye 
for  the  game  that  supplied  their  food.  When  hunger 
bade,  they  halted  and  prepared  their  meal  on  the  bank 
of  some  unpolluted  forest  brook,  which,  as  they  knelt 
down  with  thirsty  lips  to  drink,  murmured  a  sweet  un 
willingness,  like  a  maiden  at  love's  first  kiss.  They 
slept  beneath  a  hut  of  branches,  and  awoke  at  peep  of 
light  refreshed  for  the  toils  of  another  day.  Dorcas 
and  the  boy  went  on  joyously,  and  even  Reuben's  spirit 
shone  at  intervals  with  an  outward  gladness ;  but  in 
wardly  there  was  a  cold,  cold  sorrow,  which  he  com* 
pared  to  the  snowdrifts  lying  deep  in  the  glens  and  hot 


ROGER   MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  399 

lows  of  the  rivulets  while  the  leaves  were  brightly  green 
above. 

Cyrus  Bourne  was  sufficiently  skilled  in  the  travel  of 
the  woods  to  observe  that  his  father  did  not  adhere  to 
the  course  they  had  pursued  in  their  expedition  of  the 
preceding  autumn.  They  were  now  keeping  farther  to 
the  north,  striking  out  more  directly  from  the  settle 
ments,  and  into  a  region  of  which  savage  beasts  and 
savage  men  were  as  yet  the  sole  possessors.  The  boy 
sometimes  hinted  his  opinions  upon  the  subject,  and 
Reuben  listened  attentively,  and  once  or  twice  altered 
the  direction  of  their  march  in  accordance  with  his 
son's  counsel ;  but,  having  so  done,  he  seemed  ill  at 
ease.  His  quick  and  wandering  glances  were  sent  for 
ward,  apparently  in  search  of  enemies  lurking  behind 
the  tree  trunks  ;  and,  seeing  nothing  there,  he  would 
cast  his  eyes  backwards  as  if  in  fear  of  some  pursuer. 
Cyrus,  perceiving  that  his  father  gradually  resumed 
the  old  direction,  forbore  to  interfere ;  nor,  though 
something  began  to  weigh  upon  his  heart,  did  his  ad 
venturous  nature  permit  him  to  regret  the  increased 
length  and  the  mystery  of  their  way. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  they  halted,  and 
made  their  simple  encampment  nearly  an  hour  before 
sunset.  The  face  of  the  country,  for  the  last  few  miles, 
had  been  diversified  by  swells  of  land  resembling  huge 
waves  of  a  petrified  sea ;  and  in  one  of  the  correspond 
ing  hollows,  a  wild  and  romantic  spot,  had  the  family 
reared  their  hut  and  kindled  .their  fire.  There  is  some 
thing  chilling,  and  yet  heart-warming,  in  the  thought 
of  these  three,  united  by  strong  bands  of  love  and  in 
sulated  from  all  that  breathe  beside.  The  dark  and 
gloomy  pines  looked  down  upon  them,  and,  as  the  wind 
swept  through  their  tops,  a  pitying  sound  was  heard  in 


400          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE, 

the  forest ;  or  did  those  old  trees  groan  in  fear  that 
men  were  come  to  lay  the  axe  to  their  roots  at  last  ? 
Reuben  and  his  son,  while  Dorcas  made  ready  theii 
meal,  proposed  to  wander  out  in  search  of  game,  of 
which  that  day's  march  had  afforded  no  supply.  The 
boy,  promising  not  to  quit  the  vicinity  of  the  encamp 
ment,  bounded  off  with  a  step  as  light  and  elastic  as 
that  of  the  deer  he  hoped  to  slay  ;  while  his  father, 
feeling  a  transient  happiness  as  he  gazed  after  him,  was 
about  to  pursue  an  opposite  direction.  Dorcas,  in  the 
meanwhile,  had  seated  herself  near  their  fire  of  fallen 
branches,  upon  the  mossgrown  and  mouldering  trunk 
of  a  tree  uprooted  years  before.  Her  employment, 
diversified  by  an  occasional  glance  at  the  pot,  now  be 
ginning  to  simmer  over  the  blaze,  was  the  perusal  of 
the  current  year's  Massachusetts  Almanac,  which,  with 
the  exception  of  an  old  black-letter  Bible,  comprised  all 
the  literary  wealth  of  the  family.  None  pay  a  greater 
regard  to  arbitrary  divisions  of  time  than  those  who 
are  excluded  from  society;  and  Dorcas  mentioned,  as 
if  the  information  were  of  importance,  that  it  was  now 
the  twelfth  of  May.  Her  husband  started. 

"  The  twelfth  of  May !  I  should  remember  it  well," 
muttered  he,  while  many  thoughts  occasioned  a  mo 
mentary  confusion  in  his  mind.  "  Where  am  I  ? 
Whither  am  I  wandering?  Where  did  I  leave  him?" 

Dorcas,  too  well  accustomed  to  her  husband's  way 
ward  moods  to  note  any  peculiarity  of  demeanor,  now 
laid  aside  the  almanac  and  addressed  him  in  that 
mournful  tone  which  the  tender  hearted  appropriate 
to  griefs  long  cold  and  dead. 

"  It  was  near  this  time  of  the  month,  eighteen  years 
ago,  that  my  poor  father  left  this  world  for  a  better. 
He  had  a  kind  arm  to  hold  his  head  and  a  kind  voice 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  401 

to  cheer  him,  Reuben,  in  his  last  moments ;  and  the 
thought  of  the  faithful  care  you  took  of  him  has  com 
forted  me  many  a  time  since.  Oh,  death  would  have 
been  awful  to  a  solitary  man  in  a  wild  place  like 
this!" 

"Pray  Heaven,  Dorcas,"  said  Reuben,  in  a  broken 
voice,  —  "  pray  Heaven  that  neither  of  us  three  dies 
solitary  and  lies  unburied  in  this  howling  wilderness !  " 
And  he  hastened  away,  leaving  her  to  watch  the  fire 
beneath  the  gloomy  pines. 

Reuben  Bourne's  rapid  pace  gradually  slackened  as 
the  pang,  unintentionally  inflicted  by  the  words  of 
Dorcas,  became  less  acute.  Many  strange  reflections, 
however,  thronged  upon  him;  and,  straying  onward 
rather  like  a  sleep  walker  than  a  hunter,  it  was  at 
tributable  to  no  care  of  his  own  that  his  devious 
course  kept  him  in  the  vicinity  of  the  encampment. 
His  steps  were  imperceptibly  led  almost  in  a  circle; 
nor  did  he  observe  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  tract 
of  land  heavily  timbered,  but  not  with  pine-trees. 
The  place  of  the  latter  was  here  supplied  by  oaks 
and  other  of  the  harder  woods ;  and  around  their 
roots  clustered  a  dense  and  bushy  under-growth,  leav 
ing,  however,  barren  spaces  between  the  trees,  thick 
strewn  with  withered  leaves.  Whenever  the  rustling 
of  the  branches  or  the  creaking  of  the  trunks  made 
a  sound,  as  if  the  forest  were  waking  from  slumber, 
Reuben  instinctively  raised  the  musket  that  rested  on 
his  arm,  and  cast  a  quick,  sharp  glance  on  every  side ; 
but,  convinced  by  a  partial  observation  that  no  ani 
mal  was  near,  he  would  again  give  himself  up  to  his 
thoughts.  He  was  musing  on  the  strange  influence 
that  had  led  him  away  from  his  premeditated  course, 
and  so  far  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness.  Unable 


402          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

to  penetrate  to  the  secret  place  of  his  soul  where  hig 
motives  lay  hidden,  he  believed  that  a  supernatural 
voice  had  called  him  onward,  and  that  a  supernatural 
power  had  obstructed  his  retreat.  He  trusted  that  it 
was  Heaven's  intent  to  afford  him  an  opportunity  of 
expiating  his  sin  ;  he  hoped  that  he  might  find  the 
bones  so  long  unburied  ;  and  that,  having  laid  the 
earth  over  them,  peace  would  throw  its  sunlight  into 
the  sepulchre  of  his  heart.  From  these  thoughts  he 
was  aroused  by  a  rustling  in  the  forest  at  some  dis 
tance  from  the  spot  to  which  he  had  wandered.  Per 
ceiving  the  motion  of  some  object  behind  a  thick  veil 
of  undergrowth,  he  fired,  with  the  instinct  of  a  hunter 
and  the  aim  of  a  practised  marksman.  A  low  moan, 
which  told  his  success,  and  by  which  even  animals 
can  express  their  dying  agony,  was  unheeded  by  Reu 
ben  Bourne.  What  were  the  recollections  now  break 
ing  upon  him  ? 

The  thicket  into  which  Reuben  had  fired  was  near 
the  summit  of  a  swell  of  land,  and  was  clustered 
around  the  base  of  a  rock,  which,  in  the  shape  and 
smoothness  of  one  of  its  surfaces,  was  not  unlike  a 
gigantic  gravestone.  As  if  reflected  in  a  mirror, 
its  likeness  was  in  Reuben's  memory.  He  even  rec 
ognized  the  veins  which  seemed  to  form  an  inscrip 
tion  in  forgotten  characters :  everything  remained  the 
same,  except  that  a  thick  covert  of  bushes  shrouded 
the  lower  part  of  the  rock,  and  would  have  hidden 
Roger  Malvin  had  he  still  been  sitting  there.  Yet 
in  the  next  moment  Reuben's  eye  was  caught  by 
another  change  that  time  had  effected  since  he  last 
stood  where  he  was  now  standing  again  behind  the 
earthy  roots  of  the  uptorn  tree.  The  sapling  to  which 
he  had  bound  the  bloodstained  symbol  of  his  vow  had 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  403 

increased  and  strengthened  into  an  oak,  far  indeed 
from  its  maturity,  but  with  no  mean  spread  of  shad 
owy  branches.  There  was  one  singularity  observable 
in  this  tree  which  made  Reuben  tremble.  The  middle 
and  lower  branches  were  in  luxuriant  life,  and  an  ex 
cess  of  vegetation  had  fringed  the  trunk  almost  to  the 
ground  ;  but  a  blight  had  apparently  stricken  the  upper 
part  of  the  oak,  and  the  very  topmost  bough  was  with 
ered,  sapless,  and  utterly  dead.  Reuben  remembered 
how  the  little  banner  had  fluttered  on  that  topmost 
bough,  when  it  was  green  and  lovely,  eighteen  years 
before.  Whose  guilt  had  blasted  it? 

Dorcas,  after  the  departure  of  the  two  hunters,  con 
tinued  her  preparations  for  their  evening  repast.  Her 
sylvan  table  was  the  moss -covered  trunk  of  a  large 
fallen  tree,  on  the  broadest  part  of  which  she  had 
spread  a  snow-white  cloth  and  arranged  what  were 
left  of  the  bright  pewter  vessels  that  had  been  her 
pride  in  the  settlements.  It  had  a  strange  aspect, 
that  one  little  spot  of  homely  comfort  in  the  desolate 
heart  of  Nature.  The  sunshine  yet  lingered  upon  the 
higher  branches  of  the  trees  that  grew  on  rising 
ground ;  but  the  shadows  of  evening  had  deepened 
into  the  hollow  where  the  encampment  was  made,  and 
the  firelight  began  to  redden  as  it  gleamed  up  the 
tall  trunks  of  the  pines  or  hovered  on  the  dense  and 
obscure  mass  of  foliage  that  circled  round  the  spot. 
The  heart  of  Dorcas  was  not  sad  ;  for  she  felt  that 
it  was  better  to  journey  in  the  wilderness  with  two 
whom  she  loved  than  to  be  a  lonely  woman  in  a  crowd 
that  cared  not  for  her.  As  she  busied  herself  in  ar 
ranging  seats  of  mouldering  wood,  covered  with  leaves, 
for  Reuben  and  her  son,  her  voice  danced  through 


404          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

the  gloomy  forest  in  the  measure  of  a  song  that  she 
had  learned  in  youth.  The  rude  melody,  the  produc 
tion  of  a  bard  who  won  no  name,  was  descriptive  of 
a  winter  evening  in  a  frontier  cottage,  when,  secured 
from  savage  inroad  by  the  high-piled  snow-drifts,  the 
family  rejoiced  by  their  own  fireside.  The  whole  song 
possessed  the  nameless  charm  peculiar  to  unborrowed 
thought,  but  four  continually-recurring  lines  shone  out 
from  the  rest  like  the  blaze  of  the  hearth  whose  joys 
they  celebrated.  Into  them,  working  magic  with  a 
few  simple  words,  the  poet  had  instilled  the  very 
essence  of  domestic  love  and  household  happiness, 
and  they  were  poetry  and  picture  joined  in  one.  As 
Dorcas  sang,  the  walls  of  her  forsaken  home  seemed 
to  encircle  her ;  she  no  longer  saw  the  gloomy  pines, 
nor  heard  the  wind  which  still,  as  she  began  each 
verse,  sent  a  heavy  breath  through  the  branches,  and 
died  away  in  a  hollow  moan  from  the  burden  of  the 
song.  She  was  aroused  by  the  report  of  a  gun  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  encampment;  and  either  the  sudden 
sound,  or  her  loneliness  by  the  glowing  fire,  caused 
her  to  tremble  violently.  The  next  moment  she 
laughed  in  the  pride  of  a  mother's  heart. 

"  My  beautiful  young  hunter !  My  boy  has  slain  a 
deer !  "  she  exclaimed,  recollecting  that  in  the  direc 
tion  whence  the  shot  proceeded  Cyrus  had  gone  to  the 
chase. 

She  waited  a  reasonable  time  to  hear  her  son's  light 
step  bounding  over  the  rustling  leaves  to  tell  of  his 
success.  But  he  did  not  immediately  appear ;  and 
she  sent  her  cheerful  voice  among  the  trees  in  search 
of  him. 

"  Cyrus  !  Cyrus  !  " 

His  coming  was  still  delayed ;  and  she  determined, 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL.  405 

as  the  report  had  -apparently  been  very  near,  to  seek 
for  him  in  person.  Her  assistance,  also,  might  be  nec 
essary  in  bringing  home  the  venison  which  she  flat 
tered  herself  he  had  obtained.  She  therefore  set  for 
ward,  directing  her  steps  by  the  long-past  sound,  and 
singing  as  she  went,  in  order  that  the  boy  might  be 
aware  of  her  approach  and  run  to  meet  her.  From 
behind  the  trunk  of  every  tree,  and  from  every  hid 
ing-place  in  the  thick  foliage  of  the  undergrowth,  she 
hoped  to  discover  the  countenance  of  her  son,  laugh 
ing  with  the  sportive  mischief  that  is  born  of  affection. 
The  sun  was  now  beneath  the  horizon,  and  the  light 
that  came  down  among  the  leaves  was  sufficiently  dim 
to  create  many  illusions  in  her  expecting  fancy.  Sev 
eral  times  she  seemed  indistinctly  to  see  his  face  gazing 
out  from  among  the  leaves;  and  once  she  imagined 
that  he  stood  beckoning  to  her  at  the  base  of  a  craggy 
rock.  Keeping  her  eyes  on  this  object,  however,  it 
proved  to  be  no  more  than  the  trunk  of  an  oak  fringed 
to  the  very  ground  with  little  branches,  one  of  which, 
thrust  out  farther  than  the  rest,  was  shaken  by  the 
breeze.  Making  her  way  round  the  foot  of  the  rock, 
she  suddenly  found  herself  close  to  her  husband,  who 
had  approached  in  another  direction.  Leaning  upon 
the  butt  of  his  gun,  the  muzzle  of  which  rested  upon 
the  withered  leaves,  he  was  apparently  absorbed  in 
the  contemplation  of  some  object  at  his  feet. 

"How  is  this  Reuben?  Have  you  slain  the  deer 
and  fallen  asleep  over  him?"  exclaimed  Dorcas,  laugh 
ing  cheerfully,  on  her  first  slight  observation  of  his 
posture  and  appearance. 

He  stirred  not,  neither  did  he  turn  his  eyes  towards 
her ;  and  a  cold,  shuddering  fear,  indefinite  in  its 
source  and  object,  began  to  creep  into  her  blood.  She 


.406  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

now  perceived  that  her  husband's  face  was  ghastly 
pale,  and  his  features  were  rigid,  as  if  incapable  of 
assuming  any  other  expression  than  the  strong  despair 
which  had  hardened  upon  them.  He  gave  not  the 
slightest  evidence  that  he  was  aware  of  her  approach. 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Reuben,  speak  to  me !  " 
cried  Dorcas  ;  and  the  strange  sound  of  her  own  voice 
affrighted  her  even  more  than  the  dead  silence. 

Her  husband  started,  stared  into  her  face,  drew  her 
to  the  front  of  the  rock,  and  pointed  with  his  finger. 

Oh,  there  lay  the  boy,  asleep,  but  dreamless,  upon 
the  fallen  forest  leaves!  His  cheek  rested  upon  his 
arm  —  his  curled  locks  were  thrown  back  from  his 
brow — his  limbs  were  slightly  relaxed.  Had  a  sud 
den  weariness  overcome  the  youthful  hunter?  Would 
his  mother's  voice  arouse  him  ?  She  knew  that  it  was 
death. 

"  This  broad  rock  is  the  gravestone  of  your  near 
kindred,  Dorcas,"  said  her  husband.  "  Your  tears  will 
fall  at  once  over  your  father  and  your  son." 

She  heard  him  not.  With  one  wild  shriek,  that 
seemed  to  force  its  way  from  the  suffere'r's  inmost  soul, 
she  sank  insensible  by  the  side  of  her  dead  boy.  At 
that  moment  the  withered  topmost  bough  of  the  oak 
loosened  itself  in  the  stilly  air,  and  fell  in  soft,  light 
fragments  upon  the  rock,  upon  the  leaves,  upon  Reu 
ben,  upon  his  wife  and  child,  and  upon  Roger  Malvin's 
bones.  Then  Reuben's  heart  was  stricken,  and  the 
tears  gushed  out  like  water  from  a  rock.  The  vow 
that  the  wounded  youth  had  made  the  blighted  man 
had  come  to  redeem.  His  sin  was  expiated,  —  the 
curse  was  gone  from  him ;  and  in  the  hour  when  he 
had  shed  blood  dearer  to  him  than  his  own,  a  prayer, 
the  first  for  years,  went  up  to  Heaven  from  the  lips  of 
Heuben  Bourne. 


P.'S  CORRESPONDENCE. 

MY  unfortunate  friend  P.  has  lost  the  thread  of  his 
life  by  the  interposition  of  long  intervals  of  partially 
disordered  reason.  The  past  and  present  are  jumbled 
together  in  his  mind  in  a  manner  often  productive  of 
curious  results,  and  which  will  be  better  understood 
after  the  perusal  of  the  following  letter  than  from  any 
description  that  I  could  give.  The  poor  fellow,  with 
out  once  stirring  from  the  little  whitewashed,  iron- 
grated  room  to  which  he  alludes  in  his  first  paragraph, 
is  nevertheless  a  great  traveller,  and  meets  in  his  wan 
derings  a  variety  of  personages  who  have  long  ceased 
to  be  visible  to  any  eye  save  his  own.  In  my  opinion, 
all  this  is  not  so  much  a  delusion  as  a  partly  wilful  and 
partly  involuntary  sport  of  the  imagination,  to  which 
his  disease  has  imparted  such  morbid  energy  that  he 
beholds  these  spectral  scenes  and  characters  with  no 
less  distinctness  than  a  play  upon  the  stage,  and  with 
somewhat  more  of  illusive  credence.  Many  of  his  let 
ters  are  in  my  possession,  some  based  upon  the  same  va 
gary  as  the  present  one,  and  others  upon  hypotheses 
not  a  whit  short  of  it  in  absurdity.  The  whole  form  a 
series  of  correspondence,  which,  should  fate  seasonably 
remove  my  poor  friend  from  what  is  to  him  a  world  of 
moonshine,  I  promise  myself  a  pious  pleasure  in  edit 
ing  for  the  public  eye.  P.  had  always  a  hankering 
after  literary  reputation,  and  has  made  more  than  one 
unsuccessful  effort  to  achieve  it.  It  would  not  be  a 
little  odd  if,  after  missing  his  object  while  seeking  it 


408          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

by  the  light  of  reason,  he  should  prove  to  have  stum 
bled  upon  it  in  his  misty  excursions  beyond  the  limits 
of  sanity. 

LONDON,  February  29,  1845. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  —  Old  associations  cling  to  the 
mind  with  astonishing  tenacity.  Daily  custom  grows 
up  about  us  like  a  stone  wall,  and  consolidates  itself 
into  almost  as  material  entity  as  mankind's  strongest 
architecture.  It  is  sometimes  a  serious  question  with 
me  whether  ideas  be  not  really  visible  and  tangible 
and  endowed  with  all  the  other  qualities  of  matter. 
Sitting  as  I  do  at  this  moment  in  my  hired  apartment, 
writing  beside  the  hearth,  over  which  hangs  a  print  of 
Queen  Victoria,  listening  to  the  muffled  roar  of  the 
world's  metropolis,  and  with  a  window  at  but  five  paces 
distant,  through  which,  whenever  I  please,  I  can  gaze 
out  on  actual  London,  —  with  all  this  positive  certainty 
as  to  my  whereabouts,  what  kind  of  notion,  do  you 
think,  is  just  now  perplexing  my  brain  ?  Why,  — 
would  you  believe  it?  —  that  all  this  time  I  am  still  an 
inhabitant  of  that  wearisome  little  chamber  —  that 
whitewashed  little  chamber  —  that  little  chamber  with 
its  one  small  window,  across  which,  from  some  inscru 
table  reason  of  taste  or  convenience,  my  landlord  had 
placed  a  row  of  iron  bars  —  that  same  little  chamber, 
in  short,  whither  your  kindness  has  so  often  brought 
you  to  visit  me  !  Will  no  length  of  time  or  breadth 
of  space  enfranchise  me  from  that  unlovely  abode? 
I  travel ;  but  it  seems  to  be  like  the  snail,  with  my 
house  upon  my  head.  Ah,  well !  I  am  verging,  I 
suppose,  on  that  period  of  life  when  present  scenes  and 
events  make  but  feeble  impressions  in  comparison  with 
those  of  yore ;  so  that  I  must  reconcile  myself  to  be 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  409 

more  and  more  the  prisoner  of  Memory,  who  merely 
lets  me  hop  about  a  little  with  her  chain  around  my  leg. 
My  letters  of  introduction  have  been  of  the  utmost 
service,  enabling  me  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  sev 
eral  distinguished  characters,  who,  until  now,  have 
seemed  as  remote  from  the  sphere  of  my  personal  in 
tercourse  as  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  time  or  Ben 
Jonson's  compotators  at  the  Mermaid.  One  of  the 
first  of  which  I  availed  myself  was  the  letter  to  Lord 
Byron.  I  found  his  lordship  looking  much  older  than 
I  had  anticipated,  although,  considering  his  former 
irregularities  of  life  and  the  various  wear  and  tear  of 
his  constitution,  not  older  than  a  man  on  the  verge  of 
sixty  reasonably  may  look.  But  I  had  invested  his 
earthly  frame,  in  my  imagination,  with  the  poet's  spir- 
icual  immortality.  He  wears  a  brown  wig,  very  luxu 
riantly  curled,  and  extending  down  over  his  forehead. 
The  expression  of  his  eyes  is  concealed  by  spectacles. 
His  early  tendency  to  obesity  having  increased,  Lord 
Byron  is  now  enormously  fat  —  so  fat  as  to  give  the 
impression  of  a  person  quite  overladen  with  his  own 
flesh,  and  without  sufficient  vigor  to  diffuse  his  per 
sonal  life  through  the  great  mass  of  corporeal  substance 
which  weighs  upon  him  so  cruelly.  You  gaze  at  the 
mortal  heap ;  and,  while  it  fills  your  eye  with  what 
purports  to  be  Byron,  you  murmur  within  yourself, 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  where  is  he  ?  "  Were  I  disposed 
to  be  caustic,  I  might  consider  this  mass  of  earthly 
matter  as  the  symbol,  in  a  material  shape,  of  those 
evil  habits  and  carnal  vices  which  unspiritualize  man's 
nature  and  clog  up  his  avenues  of  communication  with 
the  better  life.  But  this  would  be  too  harsh ;  and,  be 
sides,  Lord  Byron's  morals  have  been  improving  while 
his  outward  man  has  swollen  to  such  unconscionable 


410          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

circumference.  Would  that  he  were  leaner ;  for  though 
he  did  me  the  honor  to  present  his  hand,  yet  it  was  so 
puffed  out  with  alien  substance  that  I  could  not  feel 
as  if  I  had  touched  the  hand  that  wrote  Childe  Har- 
old. 

On  my  entrance  his  lordship  apologized  for  not  ris 
ing  to  receive  me  on  the  sufficient  plea  that  the  gout 
for  several  years  past  had  taken  up  its  constant  resi 
dence  in  his  right  foot,  which  accordingly  was  swathed 
in  many  rolls  of  flannel  and  deposited  upon  a  cushion. 
The  other  foot  was  hidden  in  the  drapery  of  his  chair. 
Do  you  recollect  whether  Byron's  right  or  left  foot  was 
the  deformed  one? 

The  noble  poet's  reconciliation  with  Lady  Byron  is 
now,  as  you  are  aware,  of  ten  years'  standing ;  nor  does 
it  exhibit,  I  am  assured,  any  symptom  of  breach  or 
fracture.  They  are  said  to  be,  if  not  a  happy,  at  least 
a  contented,  or  at  all  events  a  quiet  couple,  descending 
the  slope  of  life  with  that  tolerable  degree  of  mutual 
support  which  will  enable  them  to  come  easily  and  com 
fortably  to  the  bottom.  It  is  pleasant  to  reflect  how 
entirely  the  poet  has  redeemed  his  youthful  errors  in 
this  particular.  Her  ladyship's  influence,  it  rejoices 
me  to  add,  has  been  productive  of  the  happiest  results 
upon  Lord  Byron  in  a  religious  point  of  view.  He  now 
combines  the  most  rigid  tenets  of  Methodism  with  the 
ultra  doctrines  of  the  Puseyites ;  the  former  being  per 
haps  due  to  the  convictions  wrought  upon  his  mind  by 
his  noble  consort,  while  the  latter  are  the  embroidery 
and  picturesque  illumination  demanded  by  his  imagi 
native  character.  Much  of  whatever  expenditure  his 
increasing  habits  of  thrift  continue  to  allow  him  is  be 
stowed  in  the  reparation  or  beautifying  of  places  of 
worship ;  and  this  nobleman,  whose  name  was  once 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  411 

considered  a  synonyme  of  the  foul  fiend,  is  now  all  but 
canonized  as  a  saint  in  many  pulpits  of  the  metropolis 
and  elsewhere.  In  polities,  Lord  Byron  is  an  un 
compromising  conservative,  and  loses  no  opportunity, 
whether  in  the  House  of  Lords  or  in  private  circles,  of 
denouncing  and  repudiating  the  mischievous  and  anar 
chical  notions  of  his  earlier  day.  Nor  does  he  fail  to 
visit  similar  sins  in  other  people  with  the  sincerest  ven 
geance  which  his  somewhat  blunted  pen  is  capable  of 
inflicting.  Southey  and  he  are  on  the  most  intimate 
terms.  You  are  aware,  that  some  little  time  before  the 
death  of  Moore,  Byron  caused  that  brilliant  but  repre 
hensible  man  to  be  ejected  from  his  house.  Moore  took 
the  insult  so  much  to  heart  that  it  is  said  to  have  been 
one  great  cause  of  the  fit  of  illness  which  brought  him 
to  the  grave.  Others  pretend  that  the  lyrist  died  in  a 
very  happy  state  of  mind,  singing  one  of  his  own  sa 
cred  melodies,  and  expressing  his  belief  that  it  would 
be  heard  within  the  gate  of  paradise,  and  gain  him  in 
stant  and  honorable  admittance.  I  wish  he  may  have 
found  it  so. 

I  failed  not,  as  you  may  suppose  in  the  course  of 
conversation  with  Lord  Byron,  to  pay  the  meed  of 
homage  due  to  a  mighty  poet,  by  allusions  to  pas 
sages  in  Childe  Harold,  and  Manfred,  and  Don  Juan, 
which  have  made  so  large  a  portion  of  the  music  of 
my  life.  My  words,  whether  apt  or  otherwise,  were 
at  least  warm  with  the  enthusiasm  of  one  worthy  to 
discourse  of  immortal  poesy.  It  was  evident,  however, 
that  they  did  not  go  precisely  to  the  right  spot.  I 
could  perceive  that  there  was  some  mistake  or  other, 
and  was  not  a  little  angry  with  myself,  and  ashamed 
of  my  abortive  attempt  to  throw  back,  from  my  own 
heart  to  the  gifted  author's  ear,  the  echo  of  those 


412          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

strains   that   have  resounded   throughout   the  world, 
But  by  and  by  the  secret  peeped  quietly  out.     Byron, 

—  I  have  the  information  from  his  own  lips,  so  that 
you  need  not  hesitate  to  repeat  it  in  literary  circles, 

—  Byron  is  preparing  a  new  edition  of  his  complete 
works,  carefully  corrected,  expurgated,  and  amended, 
in  accordance  with  his  present  creed  of  taste,  morals, 
politics,  and  religion.     It  so  happened  that  the  very 
passages  of  highest  inspiration  to  which  I  had  alluded 
were  among  the  condemned  and  rejected  rubbish  which 
it  is  his  purpose  to  cast  into  the  gulf  of  oblivion.     To 
whisper  you  the  truth,  it  appears  to  me  that  his  pas 
sions  having  burned  out,  the  extinction  of  their  vivid 
and  riotous  flame  has  deprived  Lord  Byron  of  the  il 
lumination  by  which  he  not  merely  wrote,  but   was 
enabled  to  feel  and  comprehend  what  he  had  written. 
Positively  he  no  longer  understands  his  own  poetry. 

This  became  very  apparent  on  his  favoring  me  so 
far  as  to  read  a  few  specimens  of  Don  Juan  in  the 
moralized  version.  Whatever  is  licentious,  whatever 
disrespectful  to  the  sacred  mysteries  of  our  faith, 
whatever  morbidly  melancholic  or  splenetically  sport 
ive,  whatever  assails  settled  constitutions  of  govern 
ment  or  systems  of  society,  whatever  could  wound  the 
sensibility  of  any  mortal,  except  a  pagan,  a  republican, 
or  a  dissenter,  has  been  unrelentingly  blotted  out,  and 
its  place  supplied  by  unexceptionable  verses  in  his 
lordship's  later  style.  You  may  judge  how  much  of 
the  poem  remains  as  hitherto  published.  The  result 
is  not  so  good  as  might  be  wished ;  in  plain  terms, 
it  is  a  very  sad  affair  indeed ;  for,  though  the  torches 
kindled  in  Tophet  have  been  extinguished,  they  leave 
an  abominably  ill  odor,  and  are  succeeded  by  no 
glimpses  of  hallowed  fire.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  never- 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  413 

theless,  that  this  attempt  on  Lord  Byron's  part  to 
atone  for  his  youthful  errors  will  at  length  induce 
the  Dean  of  Westminster,  or  whatever  churchman  is 
concerned,  to  allow  Thorwaldsen's  statue  of  the  poet 
its  due  niche  in  the  grand  old  Abbey.  His  bones, 
you  know,  when  brought  from  Greece,  were  denied  / 
sepulture  among  those  of  his  tuneful  brethren  there. 

What  a  vile  slip  of  the  pen  was  that !  How  ab 
surd  in  me  to  talk  about  burying  the  bones  of  Byron, 
whom  I  have  just  seen  alive,  and  incased  in  a  big, 
round  bulk  of  flesh !  But,  to  say  the  truth,  a  pro 
digiously  fat  man  always  impresses  me  as  a  kind  of 
hobgoblin ;  in  the  very  extravagance  of  his  mortal 
system  I  find  something  akin  to  the  immateriality  of 
a  ghost.  And  then  that  ridiculous  old  story  darted 
into  my  mind,  how  that  Byron  died  of  fever  at  Mis- 
solonghi,  above  twenty  years  ago.  More  and  more 
I  recognize  that  we  dwell  in  a  world  of  shadows ; 
and,  for  my  part,  I  hold  it  hardly  worth  the  trouble, 
to  attempt  a  distinction  between  shadows  in  the  mind 
and  shadows  out  of  it.  If  there  be  any  difference,  the 
former  are  rather  the  more  substantial. 

Only  think  of  my  good  fortune!  The  venerable 
Robert  Burns  —  now,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  his  eighty- 
seventh  year  — happens  to  be  making  a  visit  to  Lon 
don,  as  if  on  purpose  to  afford  me  an  opportunity  of 
grasping  him  by  the  hand.  For  upwards  of  twenty 
years  past  he  has  hardly  left  his  quiet  cottage  in 
Ayrshire  for  a  single  night,  and  has  only  been  drawn 
hither  now  by  the  irresistible  persuasions  of  all  the 
distinguished  men  in  England.  They  wish  to  cele 
brate  the  patriarch's  birthday  by  a  festival.  It  will 
be  the  greatest  literary  triumph  on  record.  Pray 
Heaven  the  little  spirit  of  life  within  the  aged  bard's 


414          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

bosom  may  not  be  extinguished  in  the  lustre  of  that 
hour  !  I  have  already  had  the  honor  of  an  introduc 
tion  to  him  at  the  British  Museum,  where  he  was  ex 
amining  a  collection  of  his  own  unpublished  letters, 
interspersed  with  songs,  which  have  escaped  the  notice 
of  all  his  biographers. 

Poh!  Nonsense!  What  am  I  thinking  of ?  How 
should  Burns  have  been  embalmed  in  biography  when 
he  is  still  a  hearty  old  man  ? 

The  figure  of  the  bard  is  tall  and  in  the  highest 
degree  reverend,  nor  the  less  so  that  it  is  much  bent 
by  the  burden  of  time.  His  white  hair  floats  like  a 
snow  -  drift  around  his  face,  in  which  are  seen  the 
furrows  of  intellect  and  passion,  like  the  channels 
of  headlong  torrents  that  have  foamed  themselves 
away.  The  old  gentleman  is  in  excellent  preserva 
tion  considering  his  time  of  life.  He  has  that  crick- 
ety  sort  of  liveliness  —  I  mean  the  cricket's  humor 
of  chirping  for  any  cause  or  none  —  which  is  perhaps 
the  most  favorable  mood  that  can  befall  extreme  old 
age.  Our  pride  forbids  us  to  desire  it  for  ourselves, 
although  we  perceive  it  to  be  a  beneficence  of  nature 
in  the  case  of  others.  I  was  surprised  to  find  it  in 
Burns.  It  seems  as  if  his  ardent  heart  and  brilliant 
imagination  had  both  burned  down  to  the  last  embers, 
leaving  only  a  little  flickering  flame  in  one  corner, 
which  keeps  dancing  upward  and  laughing  all  by 
itself.  He  is  no  longer  capable  of  pathos.  At  the 
request  of  Allan  Cunningham,  he  attempted  to  sing 
his  own  song  to  Mary  in  Heaven ;  but  it  was  evident 
that  the  feeling  of  those  verses,  so  profoundly  true 
and  so  simply  expressed,  was  entirely  beyond  the 
scope  of  his  present  sensibilities;  and,  when  a  touch 
of  it  did  partially  awaken  him,  the  tears  immediately 


P.'S  CORRESPONDENCE.  415 

gushed  into  his  eyes  and  his  voice  broke  into  a  tremu 
lous  cackle.  And  yet  he  but  indistinctly  knew  where 
fore  he  was  weeping.  Ah,  he  must  not  think  again 
of  Mary  in  Heaven  until  he  shake  off  the  dull  im 
pediment  of  time  and  ascend  to  meet  her  there. 

Burns  then  began  to  repeat  Tarn  O'Shanter;  but 
was  so  tickled  with  its  wit  and  humor  —  of  which, 
however,  I  suspect  he  had  but  a  traditionary  sense 
—  that  he  soon  burst  into  a  fit  of  chirruping  laughter, 
succeeded  by  a  cough,  which  brought  this  not  very 
agreeable  exhibition  to  a  close.  On  the  whole,  I  would 
rather  not  have  witnessed  it.  It  is  a  satisfactory  idea, 
however,  that  the  last  forty  years  of  the  peasant  poet's 
life  have  been  passed  in  competence  and  perfect  com 
fort.  Having  been  cured  of  his  bardic  improvidence 
for  many  a  day  past,  and  grown  as  attentive  to  the 
main  chance  as  a  canny  Scotsman  should  be,  he  is 
now  considered  to  be  quite  well  off  as  to  pecuniary 
circumstances.  This,  I  suppose,  is  worth  having  lived 
so  long  for. 

I  took  occasion  to  inquire  of  some  of  the  country 
men  of  Burns  in  regard  to  the  health  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  His  condition,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  remains  the 
same  as  for  ten  years  past;  it  is  that  of  a  hopeless 
paralytic,  palsied  not  more  in  body  than  in  those 
nobler  attributes  of  which  the  body  is  the  instrument. 
And  thus  he  vegetates  from  day  to  day  and  from  year 
to  year  at  that  splendid  fantasy  of  Abbotsford,  which 
grew  out  of  his  brain,  and  became  a  symbol  of  the 
great  romancer's  tastes,  feelings,  studies,  prejudices, 
and  modes  of  intellect.  Whether  in  verse,  prose,  or 
architecture,  he  could  achieve  but  one  thing,  although 
that  one  in  infinite  variety.  There  he  reclines,  on  a 
eouch  in  his  library,  and  is  said  to  spend  whole  hours 


416          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD   MANSE. 

of  every  day  in  dictating  tales  to  an  amanuensis,—- 
to  an  imaginary  amanuensis ;  for  it  is  not  deemed 
worth  any  one's  trouble  now  to  take  down  what  flows 
from  that  once  brilliant  fancy,  every  image  of  which 
was  formerly  worth  gold  and  capable  of  being  coined. 
Yet  Cunningham,  who  has  lately  seen  him,  assures  me 
that  there  is  now  and  then  a  touch  of  the  genius,  — 
a  striking  combination  of  incident,  or  a  picturesque 
trait  of  character,  such  as  no  other  man  alive  could 
have  hit  off,  —  a  glimmer  from  that  ruined  mind,  as 
if  the  sun  had  suddenly  flashed  on  a  half-rusted  hel 
met  in  the  gloom  of  an  ancient  hall.  But  the  plots 
of  these  romances  become  inextricably  confused;  the 
characters  melt  into  one  another;  and  the  tale  loses 
itself  like  the  course  of  a  stream  flowing  through 
muddy  and  marshy  ground. 

For  my  part,  I  can  hardly  regret  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  had  lost  his  consciousness  of  outward  things 
before  his  works  went  out  of  vogue.  It  was  good 
that  he  should  forget  his  fame  rather  than  that  fame 
should  first  have  forgotten  him.  Were  he  still  a 
writer,  and  as  brilliant  a  one  as  ever,  he  could  no 
longer  maintain  anything  like  the  same  position  in 
literature.  The  world,  nowadays,  requires  a  more 
earnest  purpose,  a  deeper  moral,  and  a  closer  and 
homelier  truth  than  he  was  qualified  to  supply  it 
with.  Yet  who  can  be  to  the  present  generation 
even  what  Scott  has  been  to  the  past?  I  had  ex 
pectations  from  a  young  man  —  one  Dickens  —  who 
published  a  few  magazine  articles,  very  rich  in  hu 
mor,  and  not  without  symptoms  of  genuine  pathos, 
but  the  poor  fellow  died  shortly  after  commencing 
an  odd  series  of  sketches,  entitled,  I  think,  the  Pick 
wick  Papers.  Not  impossibly  the  world  has  lost  more 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  417 

than  it  dreams  of  by  the  untimely  death  of  this  Mr. 
Dickens. 

Whom  do  you  think  I  met  in  Pall  Mall  the  other 
day?  You  would  not  hit  it  in  ten  guesses.  Why, 
no  less  a  man  than  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  or  all  that 
is  now  left  of  him  —  that  is  to  say,  the  skin,  bones, 
and  corporeal  substance,  little  cocked  hat,  green  coat, 
white  breeches,  and  small  sword,  which  are  still  known 
by  his  redoubtable  name.  He  was  attended  only  by 
two  policemen,  who  walked  quietly  behind  the  phan 
tasm  of  the  old  ex-emperor,  appearing  to  have  no  duty 
in  regard  to  him  except  to  see  that  none  of  the  light- 
fingered  gentry  should  possess  themselves  of  the  star 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Nobody,  save  myself,  so 
much  as  turned  to  look  after  him ;  nor,  it  grieves  me 
to  confess,  could  even  I  contrive  to  muster  up  any 
tolerable  interest,  even  by  all  that  the  warlike  spirit, 
formerly  manifested  within  that  now  decrepit  shape, 
had  wrought  upon  our  globe.  There  is  no  surer 
method  of  annihilating  the  magic  influence  of  a  great 
renown  than  by  exhibiting  the  possessor  of  it  in  the 
decline,  the  overthrow,  the  utter  degradation  of  his 
powers,  —  buried  beneath  his  own  mortality,  —  and 
lacking  even  the  qualities  of  sense  that  enable  the 
most  ordinary  men  to  bear  themselves  decently  in  the 
eye  of  the  world.  This  is  the  state  to  which  disease, 
aggravated  by  long  endurance  of  a  tropical  climate, 
and  assisted  by  old  age,  —  for  he  is  now  above  sev 
enty,  —  has  reduced  Bonaparte.  The  British  govern 
ment  has  acted  shrewdly  in  retransporting  him  from 
St.  Helena  to  England.  They  should  now  restore 
him  to  Paris,  and  there  let  him  once  again  review  the 
relics  of  his  armies.  His  eye  is  dull  and  rheumy, 
liis  nether  lip  hung  down  upon  his  chin.  While  I 

VOL.  ii.  27 


418          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

was  observing  him  there  chanced  to  be  a  little  extra 
bustle  in  the  street;  and  he,  the  brother  of  Caesar  and 
Hannibal,  —  the  great  captain  who  had  veiled  the 
world  in  battle  smoke  and  tracked  it  round  with 
bloody  footsteps,  —  was  seized  with  a  nervous  trem 
bling,  and  claimed  the  protection  of  the  two  policemen 
by  a  cracked  and  dolorous  cry.  The  fellows  winked  at 
one  another,  laughed  aside,  and,  patting  Napoleon  on 
the  back,  took  each  an  arm  and  led  him  away. 

Death  and  fury !  Ha,  villain,  how  came  you  hither? 
Avaunt !  or  I  fling  my  inkstand  at  your  head.  Tush, 
tush  ;  it  is  all  a  mistake.  Pray,  my  dear  friend,  par 
don  this  little  outbreak.  The  fact  is,  the  mention  of 
those  two  policemen,  and  their  custody  of  Bonaparte, 
had  called  up  the  idea  of  that  odious  wretch  —  you 
remember  him  well  —  who  was  pleased  to  take  such 
gratuitous  and  impertinent  care  of  my  person  before  I 
quitted  New  England.  Forthwith  up  rose  before  my 
mind's  eye  that  same  little  whitewashed  room,  with 
the  iron-grated  window,  —  strange  that  it  should  have 
been  iron-grated !  —  where,  in  too  easy  compliance 
with  the  absurd  wishes  of  my  relatives,  I  have  wasted 
several  good  years  of  my  life.  Positively  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  was  still  sitting  there,  and  that  the  keeper 
—  not  that  he  ever  was  my  keeper  neither,  but  only  a 
kind  of  intrusive  devil  of  a  body  servant  —  had  just 
peeped  in  at  the  door.  The  rascal!  I  owe  him  an 
old  grudge,  and  will  find  a  time  to  pay  it  yet.  Fie  ! 
fie !  The  mere  thought  of  him  has  exceedingly  dis 
composed  me.  Even  now  that  hateful  chamber  —  the 
iron-grated  window,  which  blasted  the  blessed  sunshine 
as  it  fell  through  the  dusty  panes  and  made  it  poison 
to  my  soul  — looks  more  distinct  to  my  view  than  does 
this  my  comfortable  apartment  in  the  heart  of  London. 


P.'S    CORRESPONDENCE.  419 

The  reality  —  that  which  I  know  to  be  such  —  hangs 
like  remnants  of  tattered  scenery  over  the  intolerably 
prominent  illusion.  Let  us  think  of  it  no  more. 

You  will  be  anxious  to  hear  of  Shelley.  I  need  not 
say,  what  is  known  to  all  the  world,  that  this  celebrated 
poet  has  for  many  years  past  been  reconciled  to  the 
Church  of  England.  In  his  more  recent  works  he  has 
applied  his  fine  powers  to  the  vindication  of  the  Chris 
tian  faith,  with  an  especial  view  to  that  particular  de 
velopment.  Latterly,  as  you  may  not  have  heard,  he 
has  taken  orders,  and  been  inducted  to  a  small  country 
living  in  the  gift  of  the  lord  chancellor.  Just  now, 
luckily  for  me,  he  has  come  to  the  metropolis  to  super 
intend  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  discourses  treat 
ing  of  the  poetico-philosophical  proofs  of  Christianity 
on  the  basis  of  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles.  On  my  first 
introduction  I  felt  no  little  embarrassment  as  to  the 
manner  of  combining  what  I  had  to  say  to  the  author 
of  Queen  Mab,  the  Revolt  of  Islam,  and  Prometheus 
Unbound  with  such  acknowledgments  as  might  be  ac 
ceptable  to  a  Christian  minister  and  zealous  upholder 
of  the  established  church.  But  Shelley  soon  placed 
me  at  my  ease.  Standing  where  he  now  does,  and  re 
viewing  all  his  successive  productions  from  a  higher 
point,  he  assures  me  that  there  is  a  harmony,  an  order, 
a  regular  procession,  which  enables  him  to  lay  his  hand 
upon  any  one  of  the  earlier  poems  and  say,  "  This  is 
my  work,"  with  precisely  the  same  complacency  of  con 
science  wherewithal  he  contemplates  the  volume  of  dis 
courses  above  mentioned.  They  are  like  the  successive 
steps  of  a  staircase,  the  lowest  of  which,  in  the  depth 
of  chaos,  is  as  essential  to  the  support  of  the  whole  as 
the  highest  and  final  one  resting  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  heavens.  I  felt  half  inclined  to  ask  him  what  would 


420  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

have  been  his  fate  had  he  perished  on  the  lower  steps 
of  his  staircase  instead  of  building  his  way  aloft  into 
the  celestial  brightness. 

How  all  this  may  be  I  neither  pretend  to  understand 
nor  greatly  care,  so  long  as  Shelley  has  really  climbed, 
as  it  seems  he  has,  from  a  lower  region  to  a  loftier 
one.  Without  touching  upon  their  religious  merits,  I 
consider  the  productions  of  his  maturity  superior,  as 
poems,  to  those  of  his  youth.  They  are  warmer  with 
human  love,  which  has  served  as  an  interpreter  between 
his  mind  and  the  multitude.  The  author  has  learned 
to  dip  his  pen  oftener  into  his  heart,  and  has  thereby 
avoided  the  faults  into  which  a  too  exclusive  use  of 
fancy  and  intellect  are  wont  to  betray  him.  Formerly 
his  page  was  often  little  other  than  a  concrete  arrange 
ment  of  crystallizations,  or  even  of  icicles,  as  cold  as 
they  were  brilliant.  Now  you  take  it  to  your  heart, 
and  are  conscious  of  a  heart  warmth  responsive  to  your 
own.  In  his  private  character  Shelley  can  hardly  have 
grown  more  gentle,  kind,  and  affectionate,  than  his 
friends  always  represented  him  to  be  up  to  that  dis 
astrous  night  when  he  was  drowned  in  the  Mediter 
ranean.  Nonsense,  again  —  sheer  nonsense  !  What 
am  I  babbling  about  ?  I  was  thinking  of  that  old  fig 
ment  of  his  being  lost  in  the  Bay  of  Spezzia,  and 
washed  ashore  near  Via  Reggio,  and  burned  to  ashes 
on  a  funeral  pyre,  with  wine,  and  spices,  and  frankin 
cense  ;  while  Byron  stood  on  the  beach  and  beheld  a 
flame  of  marvellous  beauty  rise  heavenward  from  the 
dead  poet's  heart,  and  that  his  fire-purified  relics  were 
finally  buried  near  his  child  in  Roman  earth.  If  all 
this  happened  three  and  twenty  years  ago,  how  could 
I  have  met  the  drowned,  and  burned,  and  buried  man 
here  in  London  only  yesterday  ? 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  421 

Before  quitting  the  subject,  I  may  mention  that  Dr. 
Reginald  Heber,  heretofore  Bishop  of  Calcutta,  but  re 
cently  translated  to  a  see  in  England,  called  on  Shelley 
while  I  was  with  him.  They  appeared  to  be  on  terms 
of  very  cordial  intimacy,  and  are  said  to  have  a  joint 
poem  in  contemplation.  What  a  strange,  incongruous 
dream  is  the  life  of  man ! 

Coleridge  has  at  last  finished  his  poem  of  Christabel. 
It  will  be  issued  entire  by  old  John  Murray  in  the 
course  of  the  present  publishing  season.  The  poet,  I 
hear,  is  visited  with  a  troublesome  affection  of  the 
tongue,  which  has  put  a  period,  or  some  lesser  stop,  to 
the  life-long  discourse  that  has  hitherto  been  flowing 
from  his  lips.  He  will  not  survive  it  above  a  month 
unless  his  accumulation  of  ideas  be  sluiced  off  in  some 
other  way.  Wordsworth  died  only  a  week  or  two  ago. 
Heaven  rest  his  soul,  and  grant  that  he  may  not  have 
completed  The  Excursion !  Methinks  I  am  sick  of 
everything  he  wrote  except  his  Laodamia.  It  is  very 
sad,  this  inconstancy  of  the  mind  to  the  poets  whom  it 
once  worshipped.  Southey  is  as  hale  as  ever,  and 
writes  with  his  usual  diligence.  Old  Gifford  is  still 
alive  in  the  extremity  of  age,  and  with  most  pitiable 
decay  of  what  little  sharp  and  narrow  intellect  the 
devil  had  gifted  him  withal.  One  hates  to  allow  such 
a  man  the  privilege  of  growing  old  and  infirm.  It 
takes  away  our  speculative  license  of  kicking  him. 

Keats  ?  No  ;  I  have  not  seen  him  except  across  a 
crowded  street,  with  coaches,  drays,  horsemen,  cabs,  om 
nibuses,  foot  passengers,  and  divers  other  sensual  ob 
structions  intervening  betwixt  his  small  and  slender  fig 
ure  and  my  eager  glance.  I  would  fain  have  met  him 
on  the  sea-shore,  or  beneath  a  natural  arch  of  forest 
trees,  or  the  Gothic  arch  of  an  old  cathedral,  or  among 


422  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

Grecian  ruins,  or  at  a  glimmering  fireside  on  the  verge 
of  evening,  or  at  the  twilight  entrance  of  a  cave,  into 
the  dreary  depths  of  which  he  would  have  led  me  by 
the  hand  ;  anywhere,  in  short,  save  at  Temple  Bar, 
where  his  presence  was  blotted  out  by  the  porter-swol 
len  bulks  of  these  gross  Englishmen.  I  stood  and 
watched  him  fading  away,  fading  away  along  the  pave 
ment,  and  could  hardly  tell  whether  he  were  an  actual 
man  or  a  thought  that  had  slipped  out  of  my  mind  and 
clothed  itself  in  human  form  and  habiliments  merely 
to  beguile  me.  At  one  moment  he  put  his  handker 
chief  to  his  lips,  and  withdrew  it,  I  am  almost  certain, 
stained  with  blood.  You  never  saw  anything  so  frag 
ile  as  his  person.  The  truth  is,  Keats  has  all  his  life 
felt  the  effects  of  that  terrible  bleeding  at  the  lungs 
caused  by  the  article  on  his  Endymion  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  and  which  so  nearly  brought  him  to  the  grave. 
Ever  since  he  has  glided  about  the  world  like  a  ghost, 
sighing  a  melancholy  tone  in  the  ear  of  here  and  there 
a  friend,  but  never  sending  forth  his  voice  to  greet 
the  multitude.  I  can  hardly  think  him  a  great  poet. 
The  burden  of  a  mighty  genius  would  never  have  been 
imposed  upon  shoulders  so  physically  frail  and  a  spirit 
so  infirmly  sensitive.  Great  poets  should  have  iron 
sinews. 

Yet  Keats,  though  for  so  many  years  he  has  given 
nothing  to  the  world,  is  understood  to  have  devoted 
himself  to  the  composition  of  an  epic  poem.  Some 
passages  of  it  have  been  communicated  to  the  inner 
circle  of  his  admirers,  and  impressed  them  as  the 
loftiest  strains  that  have  been  audible  on  earth  since 
Milton's  days.  If  I  can  obtain  copies  of  these  speci 
mens,  I  will  ask  you  to  present  them  to  James  Russell 
Lowell,  who  seems  to  be  one  of  the  poet's  most  fervent 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  423 

and  worthiest  worshippers.  The  information  took  me 
"by  surprise.  I  had  supposed  that  all  Keats's  poetic 
incense,  without  being  embodied  in  human  language, 
floated  up  to  hea,ven  and  mingled  with  the  songs  of  the 
immortal  choristers,  who,  perhaps,  were  conscious  of 
an  unknown  voice  among  them,  and  thought  their 
melody  the  sweeter  for  it.  But  it  is  not  so ;  he  has 
positively  written  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  Paradise 
Regained,  though  in  another  sense  than  that  which 
presented  itself  to  the  mind  of  Milton.  In  com 
pliance,  it  may  be  imagined,  with  the  dogma  of  those 
who  pretend  that  all  epic  possibilities  in  the  past  his 
tory  of  the  world  are  exhausted,  Keats  has  thrown 
his  poem  forward  into  an  indefinitely  remote  futurity. 
He  pictures  mankind  amid  the  closing  circumstances 
of  the  timelong  warfare  between  good  and  evil.  Our 
race  is  on  the  eve  of  its  final  triumph.  Man  is  within 
the  last  stride  of  perfection  ;  Woman,  redeemed  from 
the  thraldom  against  which  our  sibyl  uplifts  so  pow 
erful  and  so  sad  a  remonstrance,  stands  equal  by  his 
side,  or  communes  for  herself  with  angels ;  the  Earth, 
sympathizing  with  her  children's  happier  state,  has 
clothed  herself  in  such  luxuriant  and  loving  beauty 
as  no  eye  ever  witnessed  since  our  first  parents  saw 
the  sun  rise  over  dewy  Eden.  Nor  then  indeed ;  for 
this  is  the  fulfilment  of  what  was  then  but  a  golden 
promise.  But  the  picture  has  its  shadows.  There 
remains  to  mankind  another  peril  —  a  last  encounter 
with  the  evil  principle.  Should  the  battle  go  against 
as,  we  sink  back  into  the  slime  and  misery  of  ages. 
If  we  triumph —  But  it  demands  a  poet's  eye  to  con 
template  the  splendor  of  such  a  consummation  and 
not  to  be  dazzled. 

To  this  great  work  Keats  is  said  to  have  brought 


424          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

so  deep  and  tender  a  spirit  of  humanity  that  the  poem 
has  all  the  sweet  and  warm  interest  of  a  village  tale 
no  less  than  the  grandeur  which  befits  so  high  a 
theme.  Such,  at  least,  is  the  perhaps  partial  repre 
sentation  of  his  friends ;  for  I  have  not  read  or  heard 
even  a  single  line  of  the  performance  in  question,, 
Keats,  I  am  told,  withholds  it  from  the  press,  under 
an  idea  that  the  age  has  not  enough  of  spiritual  in 
sight  to  receive  it  worthily.  I  do  not  like  this  dis 
trust  ;  it  makes  me  distrust  the  poet.  The  universe 
is  waiting  to  respond  to  the  highest  word  that  the  best 
child  of  time  and  immortality  can  utter.  If  it  refuse 
to  listen,  it  is  because  he  mumbles  and  stammers, 
or  discourses  things  unseasonable  and  foreign  to  the 
purpose. 

I  visited  the  House  of  Lords  the  other  day  to  hear 
Canning,  who,  you  know,  is  now  a  peer,  with  I  forget 
what  title.  He  disappointed  me.  Time  blunts  both 
point  and  edge,  and  does  great  mischief  to  men  of  his 
order  of  intellect.  Then  I  stepped  into  the  lower 
house  and  listened  to  a  few  words  from  Cobbett,  who 
looked  as  earthy  as  a  real  clod-hopper,  or  rather  as 
if  he  had  lain  a  dozen  years  beneath  the  clods.  The 
men  whom  I  meet  nowadays  often  impress  me  thus ; 
probably  because  my  spirits  are  not  very  good,  and 
lead  me  to  think  much  about  graves,  with  the  long 
grass  upon  them,  and  weather-worn  epitaphs,  and  dry 
bones  of  people  who  made  noise  enough  in  their  day, 
but  now  can  only  clatter,  clatter,  clatter  when  the  sex 
ton's  spade  disturbs  them.  Were  it  only  possible  to 
find  out  who  are  alive  and  who  dead,  it  would  con 
tribute  infinitely  to  my  peace  of  mind.  Every  day  of 
my  life  somebody  comes  and  stares  me  in  the  face 
whom  I  had  quietly  blotted  out  of  the  tablet  of  living 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  425 

men,  and  trusted  nevermore  to  be  pestered  with  the 
sight  or  sound  of  him.  For  instance,  going  to  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  a  few  evenings  since,  up  rose  before 
me,  in  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father,  the  bodily  pres 
ence  of  the  elder  Kean,  who  did  die,  or  ought  to  have 
died,  in  some  drunken  fit  or  other,  so  long  ago  that 
his  fame  is  scarcely  traditionary  now.  His  powers 
are  quite  gone  ;  he  was  rather  the  ghost  of  himself 
than  the  ghost  of  the  Danish  king. 

In  the  stage  box  sat  several  elderly  and  decrepit 
people,  and  among  them  a  stately  ruin  of  a  woman 
on  a  very  large  scale,  with  a  profile  —  for  I  did  not 
see  her  front  face  —  that  stamped  itself  into  my  brain 
as  a  seal  impresses  hot  wax.  By  the  tragic  gesture 
with  which  she  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  I  was  sure  it 
must  be  Mrs.  Siddons.  Her  brother,  John  Kemble, 
sat  behind  —  a  broken-down  figure,  but  still  with  a 
kingly  majesty  about  him.  In  lieu  of  all  former 
achievements,  Nature  enables  him  to  look  the  part 
of  Lear  far  better  than  in  the  meridian  of  his  genius. 
Charles  Matthews  was  likewise  there ;  but  a  paralytic 
affection  has  distorted  his  once  mobile  countenance 
into  a  most  disagreeable  one-sidedness,  from  which  he 
could  no  more  wrench  it  into  proper  form  than  he 
•could  rearrange  the  face  of  the  great  globe  itself.  It 
looks  as  if,  for  the  joke's  sake,  the  poor  man  had 
twisted  his  features  into  an  expression  at  once  the 
most  ludicrous  and  horrible  that  he  could  contrive, 
and  at  that  very  moment,  as  a  judgment  for  making 
himself  so  hideous,  an  avenging  Providence  had  seen 
fit  to  petrify  him.  Since  it  is  out  of  his  own  power. 
I  would  gladly  assist  him  to  change  countenance,  for 
his  ugly  visage  haunts  me  both  at  noontide  and  night 
time.  Some  other  players  of  the  past  generation  were 


426          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

present,  but  none  that  greatly  interested  me.  It  be 
hooves  actors,  more  than  all  other  men  of  publicity,  to 
vanish  from  the  scene  betimes.  Being  at  best  but 
painted  shadows  flickering  on  the  wall,  and  empty 
sounds  that  echo  another's  thought,  it  is  a  sad  disen 
chantment  when  the  colors  begin  to  fade  and  the  voice 
to  croak  with  age. 

What  is  there  new  in  the  literary  way  on  your  side 
of  the  water  ?  Nothing  of  the  kind  has  come  under 
my  inspection  except  a  volume  of  poems  published 
above  a  year  ago  by  Dr.  Channing.  I  did  not  before 
know  that  this  eminent  writer  is  a  poet ;  nor  does  the 
volume  alluded  to  exhibit  any  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  author's  mind  as  displayed  in  his  prose  works  ; 
although  some  of  the  poems  have  a  richness  that  is 
not  merely  of  the  surface,  but  glows  still  brighter  the 
deeper  and  more  faithfully  you  look  into  them.  They 
seem  carelessly  wrought,  however,  like  those  rings  and 
ornaments  of  the  very  purest  gold,  but  of  rude,  native 
manufacture,  which  are  found  among  the  gold  dust 
from  Africa.  I  doubt  whether  the  American  public 
will  accept  them ;  it  looks  less  to  the  assay  of  metal 
than  to  the  neat  and  cunning  manufacture.  How 
slowly  our  literature  grows  up !  Most  of  our  writers 
of  promise  have  come  to  untimely  ends.  There  was 
that  wild  fellow,  John  Neal,  who  almost  turned  my 
boyish  brain  with  his  romances  ;  he  surely  has  long 
been  dead,  else  he  never  could  keep  himself  so  quiet, 
Bryant  has  gone  to  his  last  sleep,  with  the  Thanatop- 
sis  gleaming  over  him  like  a  sculptured  marble  sepul 
chre  by  moonlight.  Halleck,  who  used  to  write  queer 
verses  in  the  newspapers  and  published  a  Don  Juanic 
poem  called  Fanny,  is  defunct  as  a  poet,  though 
averred  to  be  exemplifying  the  metempsychosis  as  a 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  427 

man  of  business.  Somewhat  later  there  was  Whit- 
tier,  a  fiery  Quaker  youth,  to  whom  the  muse  had  per 
versely  assigned  a  battle  trumpet,  and  who  got  himself 
lynched,  ten  years  agone,  in  South  Carolina.  I  re 
member,  too,  a  lad  just  from  college,  Longfellow  by 
name,  who  scattered  some  delicate  verses  to  the  winds, 
and  went  to  Germany,  and  perished,  I  think,  of  in 
tense  application,  at  the  University  of  Gottingen. 
Willis  —  what  a  pity !  — was  lost,  if  I  recollect  rightly, 
in  1833,  on  his  voyage  to  Europe,  whither  he  was 
going  to  give  us  sketches  of  the  world's  sunny  face. 
If  these  had  lived,  they  might,  one  or  all  of  them, 
have  grown  to  be  famous  men. 

And  yet  there  is  no  telling ;  it  may  be  as  well  that 
they  have  died.  I  was  myself  a  young  man  of  prom 
ise.  Oh  shattered  brain,  oh  broken  spirit,  where  is 
the  f  ulfilment  of  that  promise  ?  The  sad  truth  is,  that, 
when  fate  would  gently  disappoint  the  world,  it  takes 
away  the  hopef ulest  mortals  in  their  youth ;  when  it 
would  laugh  the  world's  hopes  to  scorn,  it  lets  them 
live.  Let  me  die  upon  this  apothegm,  for  I  shall 
never  make  a  truer  one. 

What  a  strange  substance  is  the  human  brain!  Or 
rather,  —  for  there  is  no  need  of  generalizing  the  re 
mark, —  what  an  odd  brain  is  mine!  Would  you 
believe  it?  Daily  and  nightly  there  come  scraps  of 
poetry  humming  in  my  intellectual  ear  —  some  as  airy 
as  bird  notes,  and  some  as  delicately  neat  as  parlor 
music,  and  a  few  as  grand  as  organ  peals  —  that 
seem  just  such  verses  as  those  departed  poets  would 
have  written  had  not  an  inexorable  destiny  snatched 
them  from  their  inkstands.  They  visit  me  in  spirit, 
perhaps  desiring  to  engage  my  services  as  the  aman 
uensis  of  their  posthumous  productions,  and  thus  se- 


428          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

cure  the  endless  renown  that  they  have  forfeited  by 
going  hence  too  early.  But  I  have  my  own  business 
to  attend  to ;  and  besides,  a  medical  gentleman,  who 
interests  himself  in  some  little  ailments  of  mine,  ad 
vises  me  not  to  make  too  free  use  of  pen  and  ink. 
There  are  clerks  enough  out  of  employment  who  would 
be  glad  of  such  a  job. 

Good  by!  Are  you  alive  or  dead?  and  what  are 
you  about  ?  Still  scribbling  for  the  Democratic  ? 
And  do  those  infernal  compositors  and  proof  readers 
misprint  your  unfortunate  productions  as  vilely  as 
ever?  It  is  too  bad.  Let  every  man  manufacture 
his  own  nonsense,  say  I.  Expect  me  home  soon,  and 
—  to  whisper  you  a  secret  —  in  company  with  the 
poet  Campbell,  who  purposes  to  visit  Wyoming  and 
enjoy  the  shadow  of  the  laurels  that  he  planted  there. 
Campbell  is  now  an  old  man.  He  calls  himself  well, 
better  than  ever  in  his  life,  but  looks  strangely  pale, 
and  so  shadow-like  that  one  might  almost  poke  a  fin 
ger  through  his  densest  material.  I  tell  him,  by  way 
of  joke,  that  he  is  as  dim  and  forlorn  as  Memory, 
though  as  unsubstantial  as  Hope. 

Your  true  friend,  P. 

P.  S.  —  Pray  present  my  most  respectful  regards  to 
our  venerable  and  revered  friend  Mr.  Brockden  Brown. 
It  gratifies  me  to  learn  that  a  complete  edition  of  his 
works,  in  a  double-columned  octavo  volume,  is  shortly 
to  issue  from  the  press  at  Philadelphia.  Tell  him 
that  no  American  writer  enjoys  a  more  classic  reputa 
tion  on  this  side  of  the  water.  Is  old  Joel  Barlow 
yet  alive  ?  Unconscionable  man !  Why,  he  must 
have  nearly  fulfilled  his  century.  And  does  he  med 
itate  an  epic  on  the  war  between  Mexico  and  Texas 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE.  429 

with  machinery  contrived  on  the  principle  of  the  steam- 
engine,  as  being  the  nearest  to  celestial  agency  that 
our  epoch  can  boast  ?  How  can  he  expect  ever  to  rise 
again,  if,  while  just  sinking  into  his  grave,  he  persists 
in  burdening  himself  with  such  a  ponderosity  of  leaden 
verses  ? 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  —  but  whether  in  the  time  past 
or  time  to  come  is  a  matter  of  little  or  no  moment  — 
this  wide  world  had  become  so  overburdened  with  an 
accumulation  of  wornout  trumpery  that  the  inhabi 
tants  determined  to  rid  themselves  of  it  by  a  general 
bonfire.  The  site  fixed  upon  at  the  representation  of 
the  insurance  companies,  and  as  being  as  central  a 
spot  as  any  other  on  the  globe,  was  one  of  the  broadest 
prairies  of  the  West,  where  no  human  habitation  would 
be  endangered  by  the  flames,  and  where  a  vast  assem 
blage  of  spectators  might  commodiously  admire  the 
show.  Having  a  taste  for  sights  of  this  kind,  and  im 
agining,  likewise,  that  the  illumination  of  the  bonfire 
,  might  reveal  some  profundity  of  moral  truth  hereto 
fore  hidden  in  mist  or  darkness,  I  made  it  convenient 
to  journey  thither  and  be  present.  At  my  arrival, 
although  the  heap  of  condemned  rubbish  was  as  yet 
comparatively  small,  the  torch  had  already  been  ap 
plied.  Amid  that  boundless  plain,  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  like  a  far  off  star  alone  in  the  firmament, 
there  was  merely  visible  one  tremulous  gleam,  whence 
none  could  have  anticipated  so  fierce  a  blaze  as  was 
destined  to  -ensue.  With  every  moment,  however, 
there  came  foot  travellers,  women  holding  up  their 
aprons,  men  on  horseback,  wheelbarrows,  lumbering 
baggage  wagons,  and  other  vehicles,  great  and  small, 
and  from  far  and  near  laden  with  articles  that  were 
judged  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  burned. 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  431 

"  What  materials  have  been  used  to  kindle  the 
flame  ?  "  inquired  I  of  a  by-stander ;  for  I  was  desirous 
of  knowing  the  whole  process  of  the  affair  from  begin 
ning  to  end. 

The  person  whom  I  addressed  was  a  grave  man,  fifty 
years  old  or  thereabout,  who  had  evidently  come  thither 
as  a  looker  on.  He  struck  me  immediately  as  having 
weighed  for  himself  the  true  value  of  life  and  its  cir 
cumstances,  and  therefore  as  feeling  little  personal  in 
terest  in  whatever  judgment  the  world  might  form  of 
them.  Before  answering  my  question,  he  looked  me  in 
the  face  by  the  kindling  light  of  the  fire. 

"  Oh,  some  very  dry  combustibles,"  replied  he,  "  and 
extremely  suitable  to  the  purpose  —  no  other,  in  fact, 
than  yesterday's  newspapers,  last  month's  magazines, 
and  last  year's  withered  leaves.  Here  now  comes  some 
antiquated  trash  that  will  take  fire  like  a  handful  of 
shavings." 

As  he  spoke  some  rough-looking  men  advanced  to 
the  verge  of  the  bonfire,  and  threw  in,  as  it  appeared, 
all  the  rubbish  of  the  herald's  office  —  the  blazonry  of 
coat  armor,  the  crests  and  devices  of  illustrious  fami 
lies,  pedigrees  that  extended  back,  like  lines  of  light, 
into  the  mist  of  the  dark  ages,  together  with  stars,  gar 
ters,  and  embroidered  collars,  each  of  which,  as  paltry 
a  bawble  as  it  might  appear  to  the  uninstructed  eye, 
had  once  possessed  vast  significance,  and  was  still,  in 
truth,  reckoned  among  the  most  precious  of  moral  or 
material  facts  by  the  worshippers  of  the  gorgeous  past. 
Mingled  with  this  confused  heap,  which  was  tossed 
into  the  flames  by  armfuls  at  once,  were  innumerable 
badges  of  knighthood,  comprising  those  of  all  the  Eu 
ropean  sovereignties,  and  Napoleon's  decoration  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  the  ribbons  of  which  were  entangled 


432          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

with  those  of  the  ancient  order  of  St.  Louis.  There, 
too,  were  the  medals  of  our  own  society  of  Cincinnati, 
by  means  of  which,  as  history  tells  us,  an  order  of  he 
reditary  knights  came  near  being  constituted  out  of 
the  king  quellers  of  the  revolution.  And  besides,  there 
were  the  patents  of  nobility  of  German  counts  and  bar 
ons,  Spanish  grandees,  and  English  peers,  from  the 
worm-eaten  instruments  signed  by  William  the  Con 
queror  down  to  the  bran  new  parchment  of  the  latest 
lord  who  has  received  his  honors  from  the  fair  hand  of 
Victoria. 

At  sight  of  the  dense  volumes  of  smoke,  mingled 
with  vivid  jets  of  flame,  that  gushed  and  eddied  forth 
from  this  immense  pile  of  earthly  distinctions,  the  mul 
titude  of  plebeian  spectators  set  up  a  joyous  shout,  and 
clapped  their  hands  with  an  emphasis  that  made  the 
welkin  echo.  That  was  their  moment  of  triumph, 
achieved,  after  long  ages,  over  creatures  of  the  same 
clay  and  the  same  spiritual  infirmities,  who  had  dared 
to  assume  the  privileges  due  only  to  Heaven's  better 
workmanship.  But  now  there  rushed  towards  the  blaz 
ing  heap  a  grayhaired  man,  of  stately  presence,  wear 
ing  a  coat,  from  the  breast  of  which  a  star,  or  other 
badge  of  rank,  seemed  to  have  been  forcibly  wrenched 
away.  He  had  not  the  tokens  of  intellectual  power  in 
his  face  ;  but  still  there  was  the  demeanor,  the  habit 
ual  and  almost  native  dignity,  of  one  who  had  been 
born  to  the  idea  of  his  own  social  superiority,  and  had 
never  felt  it  questioned  till  that  moment. 

"  People,"  cried  he,  gazing  at  the  ruin  of  what  was 
dearest  to  his  eyes  with  grief  and  wonder,  but  never 
theless  with  a  degree  of  stateliness,  —  "  people,  what 
have  you  done  ?  This  fire  is  consuming  all  that  marked 
your  advance  from  barbarism,  or  that  could  have  pro- 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  433 

vented  your  relapse  thither.  We,  the  men  of  the  priv 
ileged  orders,  were  those  who  kept  alive  from  age  to 
age  the  old  chivalrous  spirit ;  the  gentle  and  generous 
thought ;  the  higher,  the  purer,  the  more  refined  and 
delicate  life.  With  the  nobles,  too,  you  cast  off  the 
poet,  the  painter,  the  sculptor  —  all  the  beautiful  arts ; 
for  we  were  their  patrons,  and  created  the  atmosphere 
in  which  they  flourish.  In  abolishing  the  majestic  dis 
tinctions  of  rank,  society  loses  not  only  its  grace,  but 
its  steadfastness"  — 

More  he  would  doubtless   have  spoken ;   but  here 
there  arose  an  outcry,  sportive,  contemptuous,  and  in 
dignant,  that   altogether  drowned  the   appeal  of  the 
fallen  nobleman,  insomuch  that,  casting  one  look  of 
despair  at  his  own  half-burned  pedigree,  he  shrunk    / 
back  into  the  crowd,  glad  to  shelter  himself  under  his*' 
new-found  insignificance. 

"  Let  him  thank  his  stars  that  we  have  not  flung 
him  into  the  same  fire !  "  shouted  a  rude  figure,  spurn- 
ing  the  embers  with  his  foot.  "  And  henceforth  let 
no  man  dare  to  show  a  piece  of  musty  parchment  as 
his  warrant  for  lording  it  over  his  fellows.  If  he 
have  strength  of  arm,  well  and  good ;  it  is  one  species 
of  superiority.  If  he  have  wit,  wisdom,  courage, 
force  of  character,  let  these  attributes  do  for  him  what 
they  may  ;  but  from  this  day  forward  no  mortal  must 
hope  for  place  and  consideration  by  reckoning  up  the 
mouldy  bones  of  his  ancestors.  That  nonsense  is  done 
away." 

"  And  in  good  time,"  remarked  the  grave  observer 
by  my  side,  in  a  low  voice,  however,  "  if  no  worse  • 
nonsense  comes  in  its  place ;  but,  at  all  events,  this! 
species  of  nonsense  has  fairly  lived  out  its  life." 

There  was  little  space  to  muse  or  moralize  over  the 
VOL.  H.  28 


434  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

embers  of  this  time-honored  rubbish ;  for,  before  it 
was  half  burned  out,  there  came  another  multitude 
from  beyond  the  sea,  bearing  the  purple  robes  of  roy 
alty,  and  the  crowns,  globes,  and  sceptres  of  emperors 
and  kings.  All  these  had  been  condemned  as  useless 
bawbles,  playthings  at  best,  fit  only  for  the  infancy  of 
the  world  or  rods  to  govern  and  chastise  it  in  its  non 
age,  but  with  which  universal  manhood  at  its  full-grown 
stature  could  no  longer  brook  to  be  insulted.  Into 
such  contempt  had  these  regal  insignia  now  fallen 
that  the  gilded  crown  and  tinselled  robes  of  the  player 
king  from  Drury  Lane  Theatre  had  been  thrown  in 
among  the  rest,  doubtless  as  a  mockery  of  his  brother 
monarchs  on  the  great  stage  of  the  world.  It  was  a 
strange  sight  to  discern  the  crown  jewels  of  England 
glowing  and  flashing  in  the  midst  of  the  fire.  Some 
of  them  had  been  delivered  down  from  the  time  of  the 
Saxon  princes ;  others  were  purchased  with  vast  reve 
nues,  or  perchance  ravished  from  the  dead  brows  of 
the  native  potentates  of  Hindostan  ;  and  the  whole 
now  blazed  with  a  dazzling  lustre,  as  if  a  star  had 
fallen  in  that  spot  and  been  shattered  into  fragments. 


The  splendor  of  the  ruined  monarchy  had  no  reflection 
save  in  those  inestimable  precious  stones.  But  enough 
on  this  subject.  It  were  but  tedious  to  describe  how  the 
Emperor  of  Austria's  mantle  was  converted  to  tinder, 
and  how  the  posts  and  pillars  of  the  French  throne 
became  a  heap  of  coals,  which  it  was  impossible  to 
distinguish  from  those  of  any  other  wood.  Let  me 
add,  however,  that  I  noticed  one  of  the  exiled  Poles 
stirring  up  the  bonfire  with  the  Czar  of  Russia's  seep 
tre,  which  he  afterwards  flung  into  the  flames. 

"  The  smell  of  singed  garments  is  quite  intolerable 
here,"  observed  my  new  acquaintance,  as  the  breeze 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  435 

enveloped  us  in  the  smoke  of  a  royal  wardrobe.  "  Let 
us  get  to  windward  and  see  what  they  are  doing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bonfire." 

We  accordingly  passed  around,  and  were  just  in 
time  to  witness  the  arrival  of  a  vast  procession  of 
Washingtonians,  —  as  the  votaries  of  temperance  call 
themselves  nowadays,  —  accompanied  by  thousands  of 
the  Irish  disciples  of  Father  Mathew,  with  that  great 
apostle  at  their  head.  They  brought  a  rich  contribu 
tion  to  the  bonfire  —  being  nothing  less  than  all  the 
hogsheads  and  barrels  of  liquor  in  the  world,  which 
they  rolled  before  them  across  the  prairie. 

"Now,  my  children,"  cried  Father  Mathew,  when 
they  reached  the  verge  of  the  fire,  "  one  shove  more, 
and  the  work  is  done.  And  now  let  us  stand  off  and 
see  Satan  deal  with  his  own  liquor." 

Accordingly,  having  placed  their  wooden  vessels 
within  reach  of  the  flames,  the  procession  stood  off  at 
a  safe  distance,  and  soon  beheld  them  burst  into  a 
blaze  that  reached  the  clouds  and  threatened  to  set 
the  sky  itself  on  fire.  And  well  it  might;  for  here 
was  the  whole  world's  stock  of  spirituous  liquors,  which, 
instead  of  kindling  a  frenzied  light  in  the  eyes  of  indi 
vidual  topers  as  of  yore,  soared  upwards  with  a  bewil 
dering  gleam  that  startled  all  mankind.  It  was  the 
aggregate  of  that  fierce  fire  which  would  otherwise 
have  scorched  the  hearts  of  millions.  Meantime  num 
berless  bottles  of  precious  wine  were  flung  into  the 
blaze,  which  lapped  up  the  contents  as  if  it  loved 
them,  and  grew,  like  other  drunkards,  the  merrier  and 
fiercer  for  what  it  quaffed.  Never  again  will  the  insa 
tiable  thirst  of  the  fire  fiend  be  so  pampered.  Here 
were  the  treasures  of  famous  bon  vivants  —  liquors 
that  had  been  tossed  on  ocean,  and  mellowed  in  the 


436          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

sun,  and  hoarded  long  in  the  recesses  of  the  earth— - 
the  pale,  the  gold,  the  ruddy  juice  of  whatever  vine 
yards  were  most  delicate  —  the  entire  vintage  of  To 
kay  —  all  mingling  in  one  stream  with  the  vile  fluids 
of  the  common  pothouse,  and  contributing  to  heighten 
the  selfsame  blaze.  And  while  it  rose  in  a  gigantic 
spire  that  seemed  to  wave  against  the  arch  of  the 
firmament  and  combine  itself  with  the  light  of  stars, 
the  multitude  gave  a  shout  as  if  the  broad  earth  were 
exulting  in  its  deliverance  from  the  curse  of  ages. 

But  the  joy  was  not  universal.  Many  deemed  that 
human  life  would  be  gloomier  than  ever  when  that 
brief  illumination  should  sink  down.  While  the  re 
formers  were  at  work,  I  overheard  muttered  expostu 
lations  from  several  respectable  gentlemen  with  red 
noses  and  wearing  gouty  shoes  ;  and  a  ragged  worthy, 
whose  face  looked  like  a  hearth  where  the  fire  is 
burned  out,  now  expressed  his  discontent  more  openly 
and  boldly. 

"  What  is  this  world  good  for,"  said  the  last  toper, 
*'  now  that  we  can  never  be  jolly  any  more  ?  What 
is  to  comfort  the  poor  man  in  sorrow  and  perplexity  ? 
How  is  he  to  keep  his  heart  warm  against  the  cold 
winds  of  this  cheerless  earth?  And  what  do  you 
propose  to  give  him  in  exchange  for  the  solace  that 
you  take  away  ?  How  are  old  friends  to  sit  together 
by  the  fireside  without  a  cheerful  glass  between  them  ? 
A  plague  upon  your  reformation !  It  is  a  sad  world, 
a  cold  world,  a  selfish  world,  a  low  world,  not  worth 
an  honest  fellow's  living  in,  now  that  good  fellowship 
is  gone  forever  !  " 

This  harangue  excited  great  mirth  among  the  by 
standers  ;  but,  preposterous  as  was  the  sentiment,  I 
could  not  help  commiserating  the  forlorn  condition  of 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  437 

the  last  toper,  whose  boon  companions  had  dwindled 
away  from  his  side,  leaving  the  poor  fellow  without  a 
soul  to  countenance  him  in  sipping  his  liquor,  nor  in 
deed  any  liquor  to  sip.  Not  that  this  was  quite  the 
true  state  of  the  case ;  for  I  had  observed  him  at  a 
critical  moment  filch  a  bottle  of  fourth-proof  brandy 
that  fell  beside  the  bonfire  and  hide  it  in  his  pocket. 

The  spirituous  and  fermented  liquors  being  thus  dis 
posed  of,  the  zeal  of  the  reformers  next  induced  them 
to  replenish  the  fire  with  all  the  boxes  of  tea  and  bags 
of  coffee  in  the  world.  And  now  came  the  planters 
of  Virginia,  bringing  their  crops  and  tobacco.  These, 
being  cast  upon  the  heap  of  inutility,  aggregated  it  to 
the  size  of  a  mountain,  and  incensed  the  atmosphere 
with  such  potent  fragrance  that  methought  we  should 
never  draw  pure  breath  again.  The  present  sacrifice 
seemed  to  startle  the  lovers  of  the  weed  more  than  any 
that  they  had  hitherto  witnessed. 

"  Well,  they  've  put  my  pipe  out,"  said  an  old  gen 
tleman  flinging  it  into  the  flames  in  a  pet.  "  What  is 
this  world  coming  to  ?  Everything  rich  and  racy  — 
all  the  spice  of  life  —  is  to  be  condemned  as  useless. 
Now  that  they  have  kindled  the  bonfire,  if  these  non 
sensical  reformers  would  fling  themselves  into  it,  all 
would  be  well  enough  !  " 

"  Be  patient,"  responded  a  stanch  conservative ;  "  it 
will  come  to  that  in  the  end.  They  will  first  fling  ua 
in,  and  finally  themselves." 

From  the  general  and  systematic  measures  of  re 
form  I  now  turned  to  consider  the  individual  contri 
butions  to  this  memorable  bonfire.  In  many  instances 
these  were  of  a  very  amusing  character.  One  poor 
fellow  threw  in  his  empty  purse,  and  another  a  bundle 
af  counterfeit  or  insolvable  bank  notes.  Fashionable 


438          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ladies  threw  in  their  last  season's  bonnets,  together 
with  heaps  of  ribbons,  yellow  lace,  and  much  other 
half-worn  milliner's  ware,  all  of  which  proved  even 
more  evanescent  in  the  fire  than  it  had  been  in  the 
fashion.  A  multitude  of  lovers  of  both  sexes  —  dis 
carded  maids  or  bachelors  and  couples  mutually  weary 
of  one  another  — tossed  in  bundles  of  perfumed  letters 
and  enamored  sonnets.  A  hack  politician,  being  de 
prived  of  bread  by  the  loss  of.  office,  threw  in  his 
teeth,  which  happened  to  be  false  ones.  The  Rev. 
Sydney  Smith  —  having  voyaged  across  the  Atlantic 
for  that  sole  purpose  —  came  up  to  the  bonfire  with 
a  bitter  grin  and  threw  in  certain  repudiated  bonds, 
fortified  though  they  were  with  the  broad  seal  of  a 
sovereign  state.  A  little  boy  of  five  years  old,  in  the 
premature  manliness  of  the  present  epoch,  threw  in 
his  playthings ;  a  college  graduate  his  diploma ;  an 
apothecary,  ruined  by  the  spread  of  homosopathy,  his 
whole  stock  of  drugs  and  medicines  ;  a  physician  his 
library  ;  a  parson  his  old  sermons ;  and  a  fine  gentle 
man  of  the  old  school  his  code  of  manners,  which  he 
had  formerly  written  down  for  the  benefit  of  the  next 
generation.  A  widow,  resolving  on  a  second  mar 
riage,  slyly  threw  in  her  dead  husband's  miniature. 
A  young  man,  jilted  by  his  mistress,  would  willingly 
have  flung  his  own  desperate  heart  into  the  flames, 
but  could  find  no  means  to  wrench  it  out  of  his  bosom. 
An  American  author,  whose  works  were  neglected  by 
the  public,  threw  his  pen  and  paper  into  the  bonfire, 
and  betook  himself  to ,  some  less  discouraging  occu 
pation.  It  somewhat  startled  me  to  overhear  a  num 
ber  of  ladies,  highly  respectable  in  appearance,  pro 
posing  to  fling  their  gowns  and  petticoats  into  the 
flames,  and  assume  the  garb,  together  with  the  man 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  439 

ners,  duties,  offices,  and  responsibilities,  of  the  opposite 
sex. 

What  favor  was  accorded  to  this  scheme  I  am  un 
able  to  say,  my  attention  being  suddenly  drawn  to  a 
poor,  deceived,  and  half -delirious  girl,  who,  exclaim 
ing  that  she  was  the  most  worthless  thing  alive  or 
dead,  attempted  to  cast  herself  into  the  fire  amid  all 
that  wrecked  and  broken  trumpery  of  the  world.  A 
good  man,  however,  ran  to  her  rescue. 

"  Patience,  my  poor  girl !  "  said  he,  as  he  drew  her 
back  from  the  fierce  embrace  of  the  destroying  angel. 
"Be  patient,  and  abide  Heaven's  will.  So  long  as 
you  possess  a  living  soul,  all  may  be  restored  to  its 
first  freshness.  These  things  of  matter  and  creations 
of  human  fantasy  are  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  burned 
when  once  they  have  had  their  day ;  but  your  day  is 
eternity !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  wretched  girl,  whose  frenzy  seemed 
now  to  have  sunk  down  into  deep  despondency,  — 
•"  yes  and  the  sunshine  is  blotted  out  of  it ! " 

It  was  now  rumored  among  the  spectators  that  all 
the  weapons  and  munitions  of  war  were  to  be  thrown 
into  the  bonfire,  with  the  exception  of  the  world's 
stock  of  gunpowder,  which,  as  the  safest  mode  of  dis 
posing  of  it,  had  already  been  drowned  in  the  sea. 
This  intelligence  seemed  to  awaken  great  diversity  of 
opinion.  The  hopeful  philanthropist  esteemed  it  a 
token  that  the  millennium  was  already  come;  while 
persons  of  another  stamp,  in  whose  view  mankind  was 
a  breed  of  bulldogs,  prophesied  that  all  the  old  stout 
ness,  fervor,  nobleness,  generosity,  and  magnanimity  of 
the  race  would  disappear,  —  these  qualities,  as  they  af 
firmed,  requiring  blood  for  their  nourishment.  They 
comforted  themselves,  however,  in  the  belief  that  the 


440          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

proposed  abolition  of  war  was  impracticable  for  any 
length  of  time  together. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  numberless  great  guns,  whose 
thunder  had  long  been  the  voice  of  battle,  —  the  artil 
lery  of  the  Armada,  the  battering  trains  of  Marlbor- 
ough,  and  the  adverse  cannon  of  Napoleon  and  Wel 
lington,  —  were  trundled  into  the  midst  of  the  fire.  By 
the  continual  addition  of  dry  combustibles,  it  had  now 
waxed  so  intense  that  neither  brass  nor  iron  could 
withstand  it.  It  was  wonderful  to  behold  how  these 
terrible  instruments  of  slaughter  melted  away  like 
playthings  of  wax.  Then  the  armies  of  the  earth 
wheeled  around  the  mighty  furnace,  with  their  mili 
tary  music  playing  triumphant  marches,  and  flung 
in  their  muskets  and  swords.  The  standard-bearers, 
likewise,  cast  one  look  upward  at  their  banners,  all 
tattered  with  shot  holes  and  inscribed  with  the  names 
of  victorious  fields ;  and,  giving  them  a  last  flourish 
on  the  breeze,  they  lowered  them  into  the  flame,  which 
snatched  them  upward  in  its  rush  towards  the  clouds. 
This  ceremony  being  over,  the  world  was  left  without 
a  single  weapon  in  its  hands,  except  possibly  a  few 
old  king's  arms  and  rusty  swords  and  other  trophies 
of  the  Kevolution  in  some  of  our  state  armories.  And 
now  the  drums  were  beaten  and  the  trumpets  brayed 
all  together,  as  a  prelude  to  the  proclamation  of  uni 
versal  and  eternal  peace  and  the  announcement  that 
glory  was  no  longer  to  be  won  by  blood,  but  that  it 
would  henceforth  be  the  contention  of  the  human 
race  to  work  out  the  greatest  mutual  good,  and  that 
beneficence,  in  the  future  annals  of  the  earth,  would 
claim  the  praise  of  valor.  The  blessed  tidings  were 
accordingly  promulgated,  and  caused  infinite  rejoicings 
among  those  who  had  stood  aghast  at  the  horror  and 
absurdity  of  war. 


EARTH'S   HOLOCAUST.  441 

But  I  saw  a  grim  smile  pass  over  the  seared  visage 
of  a  stately  old  commander,  —  by  his  warworn  figure 
and  rich  military  dress,  he  might  have  been  one  of 
Napoleon's  famous  marshals,  —  who,  with  the  rest  of 
the  world's  soldiery,  had  just  flung  away  the  sword 
that  had  been  familiar  to  his  right  hand  for  half  a 
century. 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  "  grumbled  he.  "  Let  them  proclaim 
what  they  please ;  but,  in  the  end,  we  shall  find  that 
all  this  foolery  has  only  made  more  work  for  the  ar 
morers  and  cannon  founders." 

"  Why,  sir,"  exclaimed  I,  in  astonishment,  "  do  you 
imagine  that  the  human  race  will  ever  so  far  return 
on  the  steps  of  its  past  madness  as  to  weld  another 
sword  or  cast  another  cannon  ?  " 

"  There  will  be  no  need,"  observed,  with  a  sneer, 
one  who  neither  felt  benevolence  nor  had  faith  in  it. 
"  When  Cain  wished  to  slay  his  brother,  he  was  at  no 
loss  for  a  weapon." 

"We  shall  see,"  replied  the  veteran  commander. 
"  If  I  am  mistaken,  so  much  the  better ;  but  in  my 
opinion,  without  pretending  to  philosophize  about  the 
matter,  the  necessity  of  war  lies  far  deeper  than  these 
honest  gentlemen  suppose.  What !  is  there  a  field 
for  all  the  petty  disputes  of  individuals?  and  shall 
there  be  no  great  law  court  for  the  settlement  of 
national  difficulties  ?  The  battle  field  is  the  only  court 
where  such  suits  can  be  tried." 

"  You  forget,  general,"  rejoined  I,  "  that,  in  this 
advanced  stage  of  civilization,  Reason  and  Philan 
thropy  combined  will  constitute  just  such  a  tribunal 
as  is  requisite." 

"  Ah,  I  had  forgotten  that,  indeed  1  "  said  the  old 
warrior,  as  he  limped  away. 


442  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

The  fire  was  now  to  be  replenished  with  materials 
that  had  hitherto  been  considered  of  even  creator  im- 

O 

portanee  to  the  well  being  of  society  than  the  warlike 
munitions  which  we  had  already  seen  consumed.  A 
body  of  reformers  had  travelled  all  over  the  earth  in 
quest  of  the  machinery  by  which  the  different  nations 
were  accustomed  to  inflict  the  punishment  of  death. 
A  shudder  passed  through  the  multitude  as  these 
ghastly  emblems  were  dragged  forward.  Even  the 
flames  seemed  at  first  to  shrink  away,  displaying  the 
shape  and  murderous  contrivance  of  each  in  a  full 
blaze  of  light,  which  of  itself  was  sufficient  to  con 
vince  mankind  of  the  long  and  deadly  error  of  human 
law.  Those  old  implements  of  cruelty;  those  horri 
ble  monsters  of  mechanism  ;  those  inventions  which 
seemed  to  demand  something  worse  than  man's  nat 
ural  heart  to  contrive,  and  which  had  lurked  in  the 
dusky  nooks  of  ancient  prisons,  the  subject  of  terror- 
stricken  legend,  —  were  now  brought  forth  to  view. 
Headsmen's  axes,  with  the  rust  of  noble  and  royal 
blood  upon  them,  and  a  vast  collection  of  halters 
that  had  choked  the  breath  of  plebeian  victims,  were 
thrown  in  together.  A  shout  greeted  the  arrival  of 
the  guillotine,  which  was  thrust  forward  on  the  same 
wheels  that  had  borne  it  from  one  to  another  of  the 
blood-stained  streets  of  Paris.  But  the  loudest  roar 
of  applause  went  up,  telling  the  distant  sky  of  the 
triumph  of  the  earth's  redemption,  when  the  gallows 
made  its  appearance.  An  ill-looking  fellow,  however, 
rushed  forward,  and,  putting  himself  in  the  path  of 
the  reformers,  bellowed  hoarsely,  and  fought  with 
brute  fury  to  stay  their  progress. 

It  was  little  matter  of  surprise,  perhaps,  that  the 
executioner  should  thus  do  his  best  to  vindicate  and 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  443 

uphold  the  machinery  by  which  he  himself  had  his 
livelihood  and  worthier  individuals  their  death ;  but 
it  deserved  special  note  that  men  of  a  far  different 
sphere  —  even  of  that  consecrated  class  in  whose 
guardianship  the  world  is  apt  to  trust  its  benevolence 
—  were  found  to  take  the  hangman's  view  of  the  ques 
tion. 

"  Stay,  my  brethren  !  "  cried  one  of  them.  "  You 
are  misled  by  a  false  philanthropy  ;  you  know  not 
what  you  do.  The  gallows  is  a  Heaven-ordained  in 
strument.  Bear  it  back,  then,  reverently,  and  set  it 
up  in  its  old  place,  else  the  world  will  fall  to  speedy 
ruin  and  desolation  !  " 

"  Onward !  onward ! "  shouted  a  leader  in  the  re 
form.  "  Into  the  flames  with  the  accursed  instrument 
of  man's  blood  policy  !  How  can  human  law  inculcate 
benevolence  and  love  while  it  persists  in  setting  up 
the  gallows  as  its  chief  symbol?  One  heave  more? 
good  friends,  and  the  world  will  be  redeemed  from 
its  greatest  error." 

A  thousand  hands,  that  nevertheless  loathed  the 
touch,  now  lent  their  assistance,  and  thrust  the  omi 
nous  burden  far,  far  into  the  centre  of  the  raging 
furnace.  There  its  fatal  and  abhorred  image  was  be 
held,  first  black,  then  a  red  coal,  then  ashes. 

"  That  was  well  done  !  "  exclaimed  I. 

"  Yes,  it  was  well  done,"  replied,  but  with  less  en 
thusiasm  than  I  expected,  the  thoughtful  observer  who\ 
was  still  at  my  side ;  "  well  done,  if  the  world  be  good* 
enough  for  the  measure.     Death,  however,  is  an  idea 
that  cannot  easily  be  dispensed  with  in  any  condition 
between  the  primal  innocence  and  that  other  purity 
and  perfection  which  perchance  we  are  destined  to  at 
tain  after  travelling  round  the  full  circle ;  but,  at  all 


444  MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

events,  it  is  well  that  the  experiment  should  now  be 
tried." 

"  Too  cold !  too  cold !  "  impatiently  exclaimed  the 
young  and  ardent  leader  in  this  triumph.  "  Let  the 
heart  have  its  voice  here  as  well  as  the  intellect.  And 
as  for  ripeness,  and  as  for  progress,  let  mankind  al 
ways  do  the  highest,  kindest,  noblest  thing  that,  at 
any  given  period,  it  has  attained  the  perception  of; 
and  surely  that  thing  cannot  be  wrong  nor  wrongly 
timed." 

I  know  not  whether  it  were  the  excitement  of  the 
scene,  or  whether  the  good  people  around  the  bonfire 
were  really  growing  more  enlightened  every  instant ; 
but  they  now  proceeded  to  measures  in  the  full  length 
of  which  I  was  hardly  prepared  to  keep  them  com 
pany.  For  instance,  some  threw  their  marriage  cer 
tificates  into  the  flames,  and  declared  themselves  can 
didates  for  a  higher,  holier,  and  more  comprehensive 
union  than  that  which  had  subsisted  from  the  birth 
of  time  under  the  form  of  the  connubial  tie.  Others 
hastened  to  the  vaults  of  banks  and  to  the  coffers  of 
the  rich,  —  all  of  which  were  open  to  the  first  comer 
on  this  fated  occasion,  —  and  brought  entire  bales  of 
paper  money  to  enliven  the  blaze,  and  tons  of  coin 
to  be  melted  down  by  its  intensity.  Henceforth,  they 
said,  universal  benevolence,  uncoined  and  exhaustless, 
was  to  be  the  golden  currency  of  the  world.  At  this 
intelligence  the  bankers  and  speculators  in  the  stocks 
grew  pale,  and  a  pickpocket,  who  had  reaped  a  rich 
harvest  among  the  crowd,  fell  down  in  a  deadly  faint 
ing  fit.  A  few  men  of  business  burned  their  day 
books  and  ledgers,  the  notes  and  obligations  of  their 
creditors,  and  all  other  evidences  of  debts  due  to  them 
selves  ;  while  perhaps  a  somewhat  larger  number  satis- 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  445 

fied  their  zeal  for  reform  with  the  sacrifice  of  any 
uncomfortable  recollection  of  their  own  indebtment. 
There  was  then  a  cry  that  the  period  was  arrived  when 
the  title  deeds  of  landed  property  should  be  given  to 
the  flames,  and  the  whole  soil  of  the  earth  revert  to  the 
public,  from  whom  it  had  been  wrongfully  abstracted 
and  most  unequally  distributed  among  individuals. 
Another  party  demanded  that  all  written  constitu 
tions,  set  forms  of  government,  legislative  acts,  statute 
books,  and  everything  else  on  which  human  invention 
had  endeavored  to  stamp  its  arbitrary  laws,  should  at 
once  be  destroyed,  leaving  the  consummated  world  as 
free  as  the  man  first  created. 

Whether  any  ultimate  action  was  taken  with  re 
gard  to  these  propositions  is  beyond  my  knowledge ; 
for,  just  then,  some  matters  were  in  progress  that  con 
cerned  my  sympathies  more  nearly. 

"  See !  see !  What  heaps  of  books  and  pamphlets !  " 
cried  a  fellow,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  a  lover  of  litera 
ture.  "  Now  we  shall  have  a  glorious  blaze !  " 

"  That 's  just  the  thing  !  "  said  a  modern  philoso 
pher.  "  Now  we  shall  get  rid  of  the  weight  of  dead 
men's  thought,  which  has  hitherto  pressed  so  heavily 
on  the  living  intellect  that  it  has  been  incompetent 
to  any  effectual  self-exertion.  Well  done,  my  lads  I 
Into  the  fire  with  them !  Now  you  are  enlightening 
the  world  indeed !  " 

"But  what  is  to  become  of  the  trade?"  cried  a 
frantic  bookseller. 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,  let  them  accompany  their  mer 
chandise,"  coolly  observed  an  author.  "  It  will  be  a 
noble  funeral  pile !  " 

The  truth  was,  that  the  human  race  had  now  reached 
a  stage  of  progress  so  far  beyond  what  the  wisest  and 


446          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

wittiest  men  of  former  ages  had  ever  dreamed  of  that 
it  would  have  been  a  manifest  absurdity  to  ai'ow  the 
earth  to  be  any  longer  encumbered  with  their  poor 
achievements  in  the  literary  line.  Accordingly  a  thor 
ough  and  searching  investigation  had  swept  the  book 
sellers'  shops,  hawkers'  stands,  public,  and  private  li 
braries,  and  even  the  little  book-shelf  by  the  country 
fireside,  and  had  brought  the  world's  entire  mass  of 
printed  paper,  bound  or  in  sheets,  to  swell  the  already 
mountain  bulk  of  our  illustrious  bonfire.  Thick,  heavy 
folios,  containing  the  labors  of  lexicographers,  com 
mentators  and  encyclopedists,  were  flung  in,  and  fall 
ing  among  the  embers  with  a  leaden  thump,  smoul- 
dered  away  to  ashes  like  rotten  wood.  The  small, 
richly  gilt  French  tomes  of  the  last  age,  with  the  hun 
dred  volumes  of  Voltaire  among  them,  went  off  in  a 
brilliant  shower  of  sparkles  and  little  jets  of  flame ; 
while  the  current  literature  of  the  same  nation  burned 
red  and  blue,  and  threw  an  infernal  light  over  the 
visages  of  the  spectators,  converting  them  all  to  the 
aspect  of  party-colored  fiends.  A  collection  of  Ger 
man  stories  emitted  a  scent  of  brimstone.  The  Eng 
lish  standard  authors  made  excellent  fuel,  generally 
exhibiting  the  properties  of  sound  oak  logs.  Milton's 
works,  in  particular,  sent  up  a  powerful  blaze,  grad 
ually  reddening  into  a  coal,  which  promised  to  endure 
longer  than  almost  any  other  material  of  the  pile. 
From  Shakespeare  there  gushed  a  flame  of  such  mai- 
!  vellous  splendor  that  men  shaded  their  eyes  as  against 
\  the  sun's  meridian  glory ;  nor  even  when  the  works  of 
his  own  elucidators  were  flung  upon  him  did  he  cease 
to  flash  forth  a  dazzling  radiance  from  beneath  the 
ponderous  heap.  It  is  my  belief  that  he  is  blazing  as 
fervidly  as  ever. 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  447 

"  Could  a  poet  but  light  a  lamp  at  that  glorious 
flame,"  remarked  I,  "  he  might  then  consume  the  mid 
night  oil  to  some  good  purpose." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing  which  modern  poets  have 
been  too  apt  to  do,  or  at  least  to  attempt,"  answered  a 
critic.  "  The  chief  benefit  to  be  expected  from  this 
conflagration  of  past  literature  undoubtedly  is,  that 
writers  will  henceforth  be  compelled  to  light  their 
lamps  at  the  sun  or  stars." 

"  If  they  can  reach  so  high,"  said  I ;  "  but  that 
task  requires  a  giant,  who  may  afterwards  distribute 
the  light  among  inferior  men.  It  is  not  every  one 
that  can  steal  the  fire  from  heaven  like  Prometheus ; 
but,  when  once  he  had  done  the  deed,  a  thousand 
hearths  were  kindled  by  it." 

It  amazed  me  much  to  observe  how  indefinite  was 
the  proportion  between  the  physical  mass  of  any  given 
author  and  the  property  of  brilliant  and  long-continued 
combustion.  For  instance,  there  was  not  a  quarto  vol 
ume  of  the  last  century  —  nor,  indeed,  of  the  present  — 
that  could  compete  in  that  particular  with  a  child's 
little  gilt -covered  book,  containing  Mother  Goose's 
Melodies.  The  Life  and  Death  of  Tom  Thumb  out 
lasted  the  biography  of  Marlborough.  An  epic,  indeed 
a  dozen  of  them,  was  converted  to  white  ashes  before 
the  single  sheet  of  an  old  ballad  was  half  consumed,  j 
In  more  than  one  case,  too,  when  volumes  of  applauded 
verse  proved  incapable  of  anything  better  than  a  sti 
fling  smoke,  an  unregarded  ditty  of  some  nameless 
bard  —  perchance  in  the  corner  of  a  newspaper  — 
soared  up  among  the  stars  with  a  flame  as  brilliant  as 
their  own.  Speaking  of  the  properties  of  flame,  me- 
thought  Shelley's  poetry  emitted  a  purer  light  than 
almost  any  other  productions  of  his  day,  contrasting 


448          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

beautifully  with  the  fitful  and  lurid  gleams  and  gushes 
of  black  vapor  that  flashed  and  eddied  from  the  vol 
umes  of  Lord  Byron.  As  for  Tom  Moore,  some  of  his 
songs  diffused  an  odor  like  a  burning  pastil. 

I  felt  particular  interest  in  watching  the  combustion 
of  American  authors,  and  scrupulously  noted  by  my 
watch  the  precise  number  of  moments  that  changed 
most  of  them  from  shabbily-printed  books  to  indistin 
guishable  ashes.  It  would  be  invidious,  however,  if 
not  perilous,  to  betray  these  awful  secrets ;  so  that  I 
shall  content  myself  with  observing  that  it  was  not  in 
variably  the  writer  most  frequent  in  the  public  mouth 
that  made  the  most  splendid  appearance  in  the  bonfire. 
I  especially  remember  that  a  great  deal  of  excellent  in 
flammability  was  exhibited  in  a  thin  volume  of  poems 
by  Ellery  Channing ;  although,  to  speak  the  truth, 
there  were  certain  portions  that  hissed  and  spluttered 
in  a  very  disagreeable  fashion.  A  curious  phenom 
enon  occurred  in  reference  to  several  writers,  native 
as  well  as  foreign.  Their  books,  though  of  highly 
respectable  figure,  instead  of  bursting  into  a  blaze,  or 
even  smouldering  out  their  substance  in  smoke,  sud 
denly  melted  away  in  a  manner  that  proved  them  to 
be  ice. 

If  it  be  no  lack  of  modesty  to  mention  my  own 
works,  it  must  here  be  confessed  that  I  looked  for 
them  with  fatherly  interest,  but  in  vain.  Too  prob 
ably  they  were  changed  to  vapor  by  the  first  action  of 
the  heat ;  at  best,  I  can  only  hope  that,  in  their  quiet 
way,  they  contributed  a  glimmering  spark  or  two  to 
the  splendor  of  the  evening. 

"  Alas !  and  woe  is  me !  "  thus  bemoaned  himself  a 
heavy-looking  gentleman  in  green  spectacles.  "The 
is  utterly  ruined,  and  there  is  nothing  to  live 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  449 

for  any  longer.  The  business  of  my  life  is  snatched 
from  me.  Not  a  volume  to  be  had  for  love  or 
money !  " 

"  This,"  remarked  the  sedate  observer  beside  me, 
"  is  a  bookworm  —  one  of  those  men  who  are  born  to 
gnaw  dead  thoughts.  His  clothes,  you  see,  are  cov 
ered  with  the  dust  of  libraries.  He  has  no  inward 
fountain  of  ideas ;  and,  in  good  earnest,  now  that  the 
old  stock  is  abolished,  I  do  not  see  what  is  to  become 
of  the  poor  fellow.  Have  you  no  word  of  comfort  for/ 
him?" 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  I  to  the  desperate  bookworm,  v^ 
"  is  not  Natoe  better  than  a  book  ?     Is  not  the  hu-    ] 
man  heart  deeper  than  any  system  of  philosophy  ?     Is 
not  life  replete  with  more  instruction  than  past  observ 
ers  have  found  it  possible  to  write  down  in  maxims  ? 
Be  of  good  cheer.     The  great  book  of  Time  is  still 
spread  wide  open  before  us  ;  and,  if  we  read  it  aright, 
it  will  be  to  us  a  volume  of  eternal  truth." 

"  Oh,  my  books,  my  books,  my  precious  printed 
books  !  "  reiterated  the  forlorn  bookworm.  "  My  only 
reality  was  a  bound  volume ;  and  now  they  will  not 
leave  me  even  a  shadowy  pamphlet !  " 

In  fact,  the  last  remnant  of  the  literature  of  all  the 
ages  was  now  descending  upon  the  blazing  heap  in 
the  shape  of  a  cloud  of  pamphlets  from  the  press  of 
the  New  World.  These  likewise  were  consumed  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  leaving  the  earth,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  days  of  Cadmus,  free  from  the  plague 
of  letters  —  an  enviable  field  for  the  authors  of  the 
next  generation. 

"  Well,  and  does  anything  remain  to  be  done  ?  * 
inquired  I  somewhat  anxiously.  "  Unless  we  set  fire 
to  the  earth  itself,  and  then  leap  boldly  off  into  in- 

VOL.  ii.  29 


450          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

finite  space,  I  know  not  that  we  can  carry  reform  to 
any  farther  point." 

"  You  are  vastly  mistaken,  my  good  friend,"  said 
the  observer.  "  Believe  me,  the  fire  will  not  be  al 
lowed  to  settle  down  without  the  addition  of  fuel  that 
will  startle  many  persons  who  have  lent  a  willing 
hand  thus  far." 

Nevertheless  there  appeared  to  be  a  relaxation  of 
effort  for  a  little  time,  during  which,  probably,  the 
leaders  of  the  movement  were  considering  what  should 
be  done  next.  In  the  interval,  a  philosopher  threw  his 
theory  into  the  flames, — a  sacrifice  which,  by  those 
who  knew  how  to  estimate  it,  was  pronounced  the 
most  remarkable  that  had  yet  been  made.  The  com 
bustion,  however,  was  by  no  means  brilliant.  Some 
indefatigable  people,  scorning  to  take  a  moment's  ease, 
now  employed  themselves  in  collecting  all  the  withered 
leaves  and  fallen  boughs  of  the  forest,  and  thereby  re 
cruited  the  bonfire  to  a  greater  height  than  ever.  But 
this  was  mere  by-play. 

"  Here  comes  the  fresh  fuel  that  I  spoke  of,"  said 
my  companion. 

To  my  astonishment,  the  persons  who  now  advanced 
into  the  vacant  space  around  the  mountain  fire  bore 
surplices  and  other  priestly  garments,  mitres,  crosiers, 
and  a  confusion  of  Popish  and  Protestant  emblems, 
with  which  it  seemed  their  purpose  to  consummate  the 
great  act  of  faith.  Crosses  from  the  spires  of  old 
cathedrals  were  cast  upon  the  heap  with  as  little  re 
morse  as  if  the  reverence  of  centuries,  passing  in  long 
array  beneath  the  lofty  towers,  had  not  looked  up  to 
them  as  the  holiest  of  symbols.  The  font  in  which 
infants  were  consecrated  to  God,  the  sacramental  ves 
sels  whence  piety  received  the  hallowed  draught,  were 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  451 

given  to  the  same  destruction.    Perhaps  it  most  nearly  , 
touched  my  heart  to  see  among  these  devoted  relics/ 
fragments  of  the  humble  communion  tables  and  uiidec- 
orated  pulpits  which  I  recognized  as  having  been  torn 
from  the    meeting-houses    of   New  England.     Those 
simple  edifices  might  have  been  permitted  to  retain  all 
of  sacred  embellishment  that  their  Puritan  founders 
had  bestowed,  even  though  the  mighty  structure  of  St. 
Peter's  had  sent  its  spoils  to  the  fire  of  this  terrible 
sacrifice.     Yet  I  felt  that  these  were  but  the  externals  I 
of  religion,  and  might  most  safely  be  relinquished  by 
spirits  that  best  knew  their  deep  significance.  » 

"  All  is  well,"  said  I,  cheerfully.  "  The  woodpaths^  ' 
shall  be  the  aisles  of  our  cathedral,  —  the  firmament 
itself  shall  be  its  ceiling.  What  needs  an  earthly  roof 
between  the  Deity  and  his  worshippers  ?  Our  faith 
can  well  afford  to  lose  all  the  drapery  that  even  the 
holiest  men  have  thrown  around  it,  and  be  only  the 
more  sublime  in  its  simplicity." 

•'  True,"  said  my  companion  ;  "  but  will  they  pause 
here?" 

The  doubt  implied  in  his  question  was  well  founded, 
In  the  general  destruction  of  books  already  described, 
a  holy  volume,  that  stood  apart  from  the  catalogue 
of  human  literature,  and  yet,  in  one  sense,  was  at  its 
head,  had  been  spared.  But  the  Titan  of  innovation, 
—  angel  or  fiend,  double  in  his  nature,  and  capable 
of  deeds  befitting  both  characters,  —  at  first  shaking 
down  only  the  old  and  rotten  shapes  of  things,  had 
now,  as  it  appeared,  laid  his  terrible  hand  upon  the 
main  pillars  which  supported  the  whole  edifice  of  our 
moral  and  spiritual  state.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
earth  had  grown  too  enlightened  to  define  their  faith 
within  a  form  of  words,  or  to  limit  the  spiritual  by 


452          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

any  analogy  to  our  material  existence.  Truths  which 
the  heavens  trembled  at  were  now  but  a  fable  of  the 
world's  infancy.  Therefore,  as  the  final  sacrifice  of 
human  error,  what  else  remained  to  be  thrown  upon 
the  embers  of  that  awful  pile  except  the  book  which, 
though  a  celestial  revelation  to  past  ages,  was  but  a 
voice  from  a  lower  sphere  as  regarded  the  present 
race  of  man  ?  It  was  done !  Upon  the  blazing  heap 
of  falsehood  and  wornout  truth  —  things  that  the 
earth  had  never  needed,  or  had  ceased  to  need,  or 
had  grown  childishly  weary  of  —  fell  the  ponderous 
church  Bible,  the  great  old  volume  that  had  lain  so 
long  on  the  cushion  of  the  pulpit,  and  whence  the 
pastor's  solemn  voice  had  given  holy  utterance  on  so 
many  a  Sabbath  day.  There,  likewise,  fell  the  family 
Bible,  which  the  long-buried  patriarch  had  read  to  hid 
children,  —  in  prosperity  or  sorrow,  by  the  fireside  and 
in  the  summer  shade  of  trees,  —  and  had  bequeathed 
downward  as  the  heirloom  of  generations.  There  fell 
the  bosom  Bible,  the  little  volume  that  had  been  the 
soul's  friend  of  some  sorely-tried  child  of  dust,  who 
thence  took  courage,  whether  his  trial  were  for  life  or 
death,  steadfastly  confronting  both  in  the  strong  as 
surance  of  immortality. 

All  these  were  flung  into  the  fierce  and  riotous 
blaze;  and  then  a  mighty  wind  came  roaring  across 
the  plain  with  a  desolate  howl,  as  if  it  were  the  angry 
lamentation  of  the  earth  for  the  loss  of  heaven's  sun« 
shine ;  and  it  shook  the  gigantic  pyramid  of  flame  and 
scattered  the  cinders  of  half-consumed  abominations 
around  upon  the  spectators. 

"  This  is  terrible  ! "  said  I,  feeling  that  my  cheek 
grew  pale,  and  seeing  a  like  change  in  the  visages 
about  me. 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  453 

"  Be  of  good  courage  yet,"  answered  the  man  with 
whom  I  had  so  often  spoken.  He  continued  to  gaze 
steadily  at  the  spectacle  with  a  singular  calmness,  as 
if  it  concerned  him  merely  as  an  observer.  "  Be  of 
good  courage,  nor  yet  exult  too  much;  for  there  is 
far  less  both  of  good  and  evil  in  the  effect  of  this  bon 
fire  than  the  world  might  be  willing  to  believe." 

"How  can  that  be?"  exclaimed  I,  impatiently. 
"  Has  it  not  consumed  everything  ?  Has  it  not  swal 
lowed  up  or  melted  down  every  human  or  divine  ap 
pendage  of  our  mortal  state  that  had  substance  enough 
to  be  acted  on  by  fire  ?  Will  there  be  anything  left 
us  to-morrow  morning  better  or  worse  than  a  heap  of 
embers  and  ashes  ?  " 

"Assuredly  there  will,"  said  my  grave  friend. 
"  Come  hither  to-morrow  morning,  or  whenever  the 
combustible  portion  of  the  pile  shall  be  quite  burned 
out,  and  you  will  find  among  the  ashes  everything 
really  valuable  that  you  have  seen  cast  into  the  flames. 
Trust  me,  the  world  of  to-morrow  will  again  enrich 
itself  with  the  gold  and  diamonds  which  have  beei^ 
cast  off  by  the  world  of  to-day.  Not  a  truth  is  de 
stroyed  nor  buried  so  deep  among  the  ashes  but  it  will 
be  raked  up  at  last." 

This  was  a  strange  assurance.  Yet  I  felt  inclined 
to  credit  it,  the  more  especially  as  I  beheld  among 
the  wallowing  flames  a  copy  of  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
the  pages  of  which,  instead  of  being  blackened  into 
tinder,  only  assumed  a  more  dazzling  whiteness  as 
the  finger  marks  of  human  imperfection  were  purified 
away.  Certain  marginal  notes  and  commentaries,  it 
is  true,  yielded  to  the  intensity  of  the  fiery  test,  but 
without  detriment  to  the  smallest  syllable  that  had 
flamed  from  the  pen  of  inspiration. 


454          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Yes ;  there  is  the  proof  of  what  you  say,"  an 
swered  I,  turning  to  the  observer ;  "but  if  only  what 
is  evil  can  feel  the  action  of  the  fire,  then,  surely,  the 
conflagration  has  been  of  inestimable  utility.  Yet,  if 
I  understand  aright,  you  intimate  a  doubt  whether  the 
world's  expectation  of  benefit  would  be  realized  by  it." 

"Listen  to  the  talk  of  these  worthies,"  said  he, 
pointing  to  a  group  in  front  of  the  blazing  pile  ;  "  pos 
sibly  they  may  teach  you  something  useful  without 
intending  it." 

The  persons  whom  he  indicated  consisted  of  that 
brutal  and  most  earthy  figure  who  had  stood  forth  so 
furiously  in  defence  of  the  gallows, — the  hangman,  in 
short,  —  together  with  the  last  thief  and  the  last  mur 
derer,  all  three  of  whom  were  clustered  about  the  last 
toper.  The  latter  was  liberally  passing  the  brandy 
bottle,  which  he  had  rescued  from  the  general  destruc 
tion  of  wines  and  spirits.  This  little  convivial  party 
seemed  at  the  lowest  pitch  of  despondency,  as  consid 
ering  that  the  purified  world  must  needs  be  utterly 
unlike  the  sphere  that  they  had  hitherto  known,  and 
therefore  but  a  strange  and  desolate  abode  for  gentle 
men  of  their  kidney. 

"  The  best  counsel  for  all  of  us  is,"  remarked  the 
hangman,  "  that,  as  soon  as  we  have  finished  the  last 
drop  of  liquor,  I  help  you,  my  three  friends,  to  a  com 
fortable  end  upon  the  nearest  tree,  and  then  hang  my 
self  on  the  same  bough.  This  is  no  world  for  us  any 
longer." 

"  Poh,  poh,  my  good  fellows  !  "  said  a  dark-complex 
ioned  personage,  who  now  joined  the  group,  —  his  com 
plexion  was  indeed  fearfully  dark,  and  his  eyes  glowed 
with  a  redder  light  than  that  of  the  bonfire  ;  "  be  not 
tio  cast  down,  my  dear  friends ;  you  shall  see  good 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST.  455 

days  yet.  There  's  one  thing  that  these  wiseacres 
have  forgotten  to  throw  into  the  fire,  and  without 
which  all  the  rest  of  the  conflagration  is  just  nothing 
at  all ;  yes,  though  they  had  burned  the  earth  itself  to 
a  cinder." 

"And  what  may  that  be?"  eagerly  demanded  the 
last  murderer. 

"  What  but  the  human  heart  itself?  "  said  the  dark-^ 
visaged  stranger,  with  a  portentous  grin.  "  And,  un 
less  they  hit  upon  some  method  of  purifying  that  foul 
cavern,  forth  from  it  will  reissue  all  the  shapes  of 
wrong  and  misery  —  the  same  old  shapes  or  worse 
ones  —  which  they  have  taken  such  a  vast  deal  of 
trouble  to  consume  to  ashes.  I  have  stood  by  this 
livelong  night  and  laughed  in  my  sleeve  at  the  whole 
business.  Oh,  take  my  word  for  it,  it  will  be  the  old 
world  yet! " 

This  brief  conversation  supplied  me  with  a  theme 
for  lengthened  thought.  How  sad  a  truth,  if  true  it 
were,  that  man's  agelong  endeavor  for  perfection  had 
served  only  to  render  him  the  mockery  of  the  evil 
principle,  from  the  fatal  circumstance  of  an  error  at 
the  very  root  of  the  matter !  The  heart,  the  heart,  —  , 
there  was  the  little  yet  boundless  sphere  wherein  ex 
isted  the  original  wrong  of  which  the  crime  and 
misery  of  this  outward  world  were  merely  types. 
Purify  that  inward  sphere,  and  the  many  shapes  of  / 
evil  that  haunt  the  outward,  and  which  now  seem 
almost  our  only  realities,  will  turn  to  shadowy  phan 
toms  and  vanish  of  their  own  accord  ;  but  if  we  go 
no  deeper  than  the  intellect,  and  strive,  with  merely  / 
that  feeble  instrument,  to  discern  and  rectify  what  is 
wrong,  our  whole  accomplishment  will  be  a  dream,  so 
unsubstantial  that  it  matters  little  whether  the  bon- 


456          MOSSES  FROM  AN    OLD  MANSE. 

fire,  which  I  have  so  faithfully  described,  were  what 
we  choose  to  call  a  real  event  and  a  flame  that  would 
scorch  the  finger,  or  only  a  phosphoric  radiance  and  a 
parable  of  my  own  brain. 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK. 

AT   HOME. 

FROM  infancy  I  was  under  the  guardianship  of  a 
village  parson,  who  made  me  the  subject  of  daily 
prayer  and  the  sufferer  of  innumerable  stripes,  using 
no  distinction,  as  to  these  marks  of  paternal  love,  be 
tween  myself  and  his  own  three  boys.  The  result,  it 
must  be  owned,  has  been  very  different  in  their  cases 
and  mine,  they  being  all  respectable  men  and  well  set 
tled  in  life  ;  the  eldest  as  the  successor  to  his  father's 
pulpit,  the  second  as  a  physician,  and  the  third  as  a 
partner  in  a  wholesale  shoe  store  ;  while  I,  with  better 
prospects  than  either  of  them,  have  run  the  course 
which  this  volume  will  describe.  Yet  there  is  room 
for  doubt  whether  I  should  have  been  any  better  con 
tented  with  such  success  as  theirs  than  with  my  own 
misfortunes  —  at  least,  till  after  my  experience  of  the 
latter  had  made  it  too  late  for  another  trial. 

My  guardian  had  a  name  of  considerable  eminence, 
and  fitter  for  the  place  it  occupies  in  ecclesiastical  his 
tory  than  for  so  frivolous  a  page  as  mine.  In  his  own 
vicinity,  among  the  lighter  part  of  his  hearers,  he  was 
called  Parson  Thumpcushion,  from  the  very  forcible 
gestures  with  which  he  illustrated  his  doctrines.  Cer 
tainly,  if  his  powers  as  a  preacher  were  to  be  estimated 
by  the  damage  done  to  his  pulpit  furniture,  none  of 
bis  living  brethren,  and  but  few  dead  ones,  would  have 
been  worthy  even  to  pronounce  a  benediction  after 


458          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

him.  Such  pounding  and  expounding  the  moment  he 
began  to  grow  warm,  such  slapping  with  his  open 
palm,  thumping  with  his  closed  fist,  and  banging  with 
the  whole  weight  of  the  great  Bible,  convinced  me  that 
/  he  held,  in  imagination,  either  the  Old  Nick  or  some 
Unitarian  infidel  at  bay,  and  belabored  his  unhappy 
cushion  as  proxy  for  those  abominable  adversaries. 
Nothing  but  this  exercise  of  the  body  while  delivering 
his  sermons  could  have  supported  the  good  parson's 
health  under  the  mental  toil  which  they  cost  him  in 
composition. 

Though  Parson  Thumpcushion  had  an  upright  heart, 
and  some  called  it  a  warm  one,  he  was  invariably 
stern  and  severe,  on  principle,  I  suppose,  to  me.  With 
late  justice,  though  early  enough,  even  now,  to  be 
tinctured  with  generosity,  I  acknowledge  him  to  have 
been  a  good  and  wise  man  after  his  own  fashion.  If 
his  management  failed  as  to  myself,  it  succeeded  with 
his  three  sons  ;  nor,  I  must  frankly  say,  could  any 
mode  of  education  with  which  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  be  acquainted  have  made  me  much  better  than  what 
I  was  or  led  me  to  a  happier  fortune  than  the  present. 
He  could  neither  change  the  nature  that  God  gave  me 
nor  adapt  his  own  inflexible  mind  to  my  peculiar  char 
acter.  Perhaps  it  was  my  chief  misfortune  that  I  had 
neither  father  nor  mother  alive  ;  for  parents  have  an 
instinctive  sagacity  in  regard  to  the  welfare  of  their 
children,  and  the  child  feels  a  confidence  both  in  the 
wisdom  and  affection  of  his  parents  which  he  cannot 
transfer  to  any  delegate  of  their  duties,  however  con 
scientious.  An  orphan's  fate  is  hard,  be  he  rich  or 
poor.  As  for  Parson  Thumpcushion,  whenever  I  see 
the  old  gentleman  in  my  dreams  he  looks  kindly  and 
sorrowfully  at  me,  holding  out  his  hand  as  if  each  had 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.     459 

something  to  forgive.  With  such  kindness  and  such 
forgiveness,  but  without  the  sorrow,  may  our  next 
meeting  be ! 

I  was  a  youth  of  gay  and  happy  temperament,  with 
an  incorrigible  levity  of  spirit,  of  no  vicious  propensi 
ties,  sensible  enough,  but  wayward  and  fanciful.  What 
a  character  was  this  to  be  brought  in  contact  with  the 
stern  old  Pilgrim  spirit  of  my  guardian !  We  were  at 
variance  on  a  thousand  points  ;  but  our  chief  and  final 
dispute  arose  from  the  pertinacity  with  which  he  in 
sisted  on  my  adopting  a  particular  profession  ;  while  I, 
being  heir  to  a  moderate  competence,  had  avowed  my 
purpose  of  keeping  aloof  from  the  regular  business  of 
life.  This  would  have  been  a  dangerous  resolution 
anywhere  in  the  world  ;  it  was  fatal  in  New  England. 
There  is  a  grossness  in  the  conceptions  of  my  country 
men  ;  they  will  not  be  convinced  that  any  good  thing 
may  consist  with  what  they  call  idleness;  they  can 
anticipate  nothing  but  evil  of  a  young  man  who  neither 
studies  physic,  law,  nor  gospel,  nor  opens  a  store,  nor 
takes  to  farming  but  manifests  an  incomprehensible 
disposition  to  be  satisfied  with  what  his  father  left  him. 
The  principle  is  excellent  in  its  general  influence,  but 
most  miserable  in  its  effect  on  the  few  that  violate  it. 
I  had  a  quick  sensitiveness  to  public  opinion,  and  felt 
as  if  it  ranked  me  with  the  tavern  haunters  and  town 
paupers,  —  with  the  drunken  poet  who  hawked  his 
own  Fourth  of  July  odes,  and  the  broken  soldier  who 
had  been  good  for  nothing  since  last  war.  The  conse 
quence  of  all  this  was  a  piece  of  light-hearted  desper 
ation. 

I  do  not  over-estimate  my  notoriety  when  I  take  it 
for  granted  that  many  of  my  readers  must  have  heard 
of  me  in  the  wild  way  of  life  which  I  adopted.  The 


460  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

idea  of  becoming  a  wandering  story  teller  had  been 
suggested,  a  year  or  two  before,  by  an  encounter  with 
several  merry  vagabonds  in  a  showman's  wagon,  where 
they  and  I  had  sheltered  ourselves  during  a  summer 
shower.  The  project  was  not  more  extravagant  than 
most  which  a  young  man  forms.  Stranger  ones  are 
executed  every  day;  and,  not  to  mention  my  proto 
types  in  the  East,  and  the  wandering  orators  and  poets 
whom  my  own  ears  have  heard,  I  had  the  example  of 
one  illustrious  itinerant  in  the  other  hemisphere,  —  of 
Goldsmith,  who  planned  and  performed  his  travels 
through  France  and  Italy  on  a  less  promising  scheme 
than  mine.  I  took  credit  to  myself  for  various  qualifi 
cations,  mental  and  personal,  suited  to  the  undertak 
ing.  Besides,  my  mind  had  latterly  tormented  me  for 
employment,  keeping  up  an  irregular  activity  even  in 
sleep,  and  making  me  conscious  that  I  must  toil,  if  it 
were  but  in  catching  butterflies.  But  my  chief  mo 
tives  were,  discontent  with  home  and  a  bitter  grudge 
against  Parson  Thumpcushion,  who  would  rather  have 
laid  me  in  my  father's  tomb  than  seen  me  either  a  nov 
elist  or  an  actor,  two  characters  which  I  thus  hit  upon 
a  method  of  uniting.  After  all  it  was  not  half  so 
foolish  as  if  I  had  written  romances  instead  of  reciting 
them. 

The  following  pages  will  contain  a  picture  of  my 
vagrant  life,  intermixed  with  specimens,  generally 
brief  and  slight,  of  that  great  mass  of  fiction  to  which 
I  gave  existence,  and  which  has  vanished  like  cloud 
shapes.  Besides  the  occasions  when  I  sought  a  pe 
cuniary  reward,  I  was  accustomed  to  exercise  my  nar 
rative  faculty  wherever  chance  had  collected  a  little 
audience  idle  enough  to  listen.  These  rehearsals  were 
useful  in  testing  the  strong  points  of  my  stories ;  and, 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.    461 

indeed,  the  flow  of  fancy  soon  came  upon  me  so  abun 
dantly  that  its  indulgence  was  its  own  reward,  though 
the  hope  of  praise  also  became  a  powerful  incitement. 
Since  I  shall  never  feel  the  warm  gush  of  new  thought 
as  I  did  then,  let  me  beseech  the  reader  to  believe  that 
my  tales  were  not  always  so  cold  as  he  may  find  them 
now.  With  each  specimen  will  be  given  a  sketch  of 
the  circumstances  in  which  the  story  was  told.  Thus 
my  airdrawn  pictures  will  be  set  in  frames  perhaps 
more  valuable  than  the  pictures  themselves,  since  they 
will  be  embossed  with  groups  of  characteristic  figures, 
amid  the  lake  and  mountain  scenery,  the  villages  and 
fertile  fields,  of  our  native  land.  But  I  write  the  book 
for  the  sake  of  its  moral,  which  many  a  dreaming 
youth  may  profit  by,  though  it  is  the  experience  of  a 
wandering  story  teller. 

A   FLIGHT    IN   THE   FOG. 

I  set  out  on  my  rambles  one  morning  in  June  about 
sunrise.  The  day  promised  to  be  fair,  though  at  that 
early  hour  a  heavy  mist  lay  along  the  earth  and  set 
tled  in  minute  globules  on  the  folds  of  my  clothes,  so 
that  I  looked  precisely  as  if  touched  with  a  hoar-frost. 
The  sky  was  quite  obscured,  and  the  trees  and  houses 
invisible  till  they  grew  out  of  the  fog  as  I  came  close 
upon  them.  There  is  a  hill  towards  the  west  whence 
the  road  goes  abruptly  down,  holding  a  level  course 
through  the  village  and  ascending  an  eminence  on  the 
other  side,  behind  which  it  disappears.  The  whole 
view  comprises  an  extent  of  half  a  mile.  Here  I 
paused  and,  while  gazing  through  the  misty  veil,  it 
partially  rose  and  swept  away  with  so  sudden  an  effect 
that  a  gray  cloud  seemed  to  have  taken  the  aspect  of 
*  small  white  town.  A  thin  vapor  being  still  diffused 


462  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

through  the  atmosphere,  the  wreaths  and  pillars  of 
fog,  whether  hung  in  air  or  based  on  earth,  appeared 
not  less  substantial  than  the  edifices,  and  gave  their 
own  indistinctness  to  the  whole.  It  was  singular  that 
such  an  unromantic  scene  should  look  so  visionary. 

Half  of  the  parson's  dwelling  was  a  dingy  white 
house,  and  half  of  it  was  a  cloud ;  but  Squire  Moody's 
mansion,  the  grandest  in  the  village,  was  wholly  visi 
ble,  even  the  lattice  work  of  the  balcony  under  the 
front  window;  while  in  another  place  only  two  red 
chimneys  were  seen  above  the  mist,  appertaining  to 
my  own  paternal  residence,  then  tenanted  by  stran 
gers.  I  could  not  remember  those  with  whom  I  had 
dwelt  there,  not  even  my  mother.  The  brick  edifice 
of  the  bank  was  in  the  clouds  ;  the  foundations  of 
what  was  to  be  a  great  block  of  buildings  had  van 
ished,  ominously,  as  it  proved  ;  the  dry  goods  store  of 
Mr.  Nightingale  seemed  a  doubtful  concern ;  and  Do- 
minicus  Pike's  tobacco  manufactory  an  affair  of 
smoke,  except  the  splendid  image  of  an  Indian  chief 
in  front.  The  white  spire  of  the  meeting-house  as 
cended  out  of  the  densest  heap  of  vapor,  as  if  that 
shadowy  base  were  its  only  support ;  or,  to  give  a 
truer  interpretation,  the  steeple  was  the  emblem  of 
Religion,  enveloped  in  mystery  below,  yet  pointing  to 
a  cloudless  atmosphere,  and  catching  the  brightness  of 
the  east  on  its  gilded  vane. 

As  I  beheld  these  objects,  and  the  dewy  street,  with 
grassy  intervals  and  a  border  of  trees  between  the 
wheel  track  and  the  sidewalks,  all  so  indistinct,  and  not 
to  be  traced  without  an  effort,  the,  whole  seemed  more 
like  memory  than  reality.  I  would  have  imagined 
that  years  had  already  passed,  and  I  was  far  away, 
contemplating  that  dim  picture  of  my  native  place, 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.    463 

tfhich  I  should  retain  in  my  mind  through  the  mist  of 
time.  No  tears  fell  from  my  eyes  among  the  dew- 
drops  of  the  morning ;  nor  does  it  occur  to  me  that  I 
heaved  a  sigh.  In  truth,  I  had  never  felt  such  a  de 
licious  excitement,  nor  known  what  freedom  was,  till 
that  moment  when  I  gave  up  my  home  and  took  the 
whole  world  in  exchange,  fluttering  the  wings  of  my 
spirit  as  if  I  would  have  flown  from  one  star  to  another 
through  the  universe.  I  waved  my  hand  towards  tho 
dusky  village,  bade  it  a  joyous  farewell,  and  turned 
away  to  follow  any  path  but  that  which  might  lead  me 
back.  Never  was  Childe  Harold's  sentiment  adopted 
in  a  spirit  more  unlike  his  own. 

Naturally  enough,  I  thought  of  Don  Quixote.  Re 
collecting  how  the  knight  and  Sancho  had  watched  for 
auguries  when  they  took  the  road  to  Toboso,  I  began, 
between  jest  and  earnest,  to  feel  a  similar  anxiety.  It 
was  gratified,  and  by  a  more  poetical  phenomenon 
than  the  braying  of  the  dappled  ass  or  the  neigh  of 
Rosinante.  The  sun,  then  just  above  the  horizon, 
shone  faintly  through  the  fog,  and  formed  a  species  of 
rainbow  in  the  west,  bestriding  my  intended  road  like 
a  gigantic  portal.  I  had  never  known  before  that  a 
bow  could  be  generated  between  the  sunshine  and  the 
morning  mist.  It  had  no  brilliancy,  no  perceptible 
hues,  but  was  a  mere  unpainted  framework,  as  white 
and  ghostlike  as  the  lunar  rainbow,  which  is  deemed 
ominous  of  evil.  But,  with  a  light  heart  to  which  all 
omens  were  propitious,  I  advanced  beneath  the  misty 
archway  of  futurity. 

I  had  determined  not  to  enter  on  my  profession 
within  a  hundred  miles  of  home,  and  then  to  cover 
myself  with  a  fictitious  name.  The  first  precaution 
*as  reasonable  enough,  as  otherwise  Parson  Thump 


464  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

cushion  might  have  put  an  untimely  catastrophe  to  my 
story ;  but  as  nobody  would  be  much  affected  by  my 
disgrace,  and  all  was  to  be  suffered  in  my  own  person, 
1  know  not  why  I  cared  about  a  name.  For  a  week 
or  two  I  travelled  almost  at  random,  seeking  hardly 
any  guidance  except  the  whirling  of  a  leaf  at  some 
turn  of  the  road,  or  the  green  bough  that  beckoned 
me,  or  the  naked  branch  that  pointed  its  withered 
finger  onward.  All  my  care  was  to  be  farther  from 
home  each  night  than  the  preceding  morning. 

A   FELLOW-TRAVELLER. 

One  day  at  noontide,  when  the  sun  had  burst  sud 
denly  out  of  a  cloud  and  threatened  to  dissolve  me,  I 
looked  round  for  shelter,  whether  of  tavern,  cottage, 
barn,  or  shady  tree.  The  first  which  offered  itself  was 
a  wood  —  not  a  forest,  but  a  trim  plantation  of  young 
oaks,  growing  just  thick  enough  to  keep  the  mass  of 
sunshine  out,  while  they  admitted  a  few  straggling 
beams,  and  thus  produced  the  most  cheerful  gloom  im 
aginable.  A  brook,  so  small  and  clear,  and  appar 
ently  so  cool,  that  I  wanted  to  drink  it  up,  ran  under 
the  road  through  a  little  arch  of  stone  without  once 
meeting  the  sun  in  its  passage  from  the  shade  on  one 
side  to  the  shade  on  the  other.  As  there  was  a  step- 
ping-place  over  the  stone  wall,  and  a  path  along  the 
rivulet,  I  followed  it  and  discovered  its  source — a 
spring  gushing  out  of  an  old  barrel. 

In  this  pleasant  spot  I  saw  a  light  pack  suspended 
from  the  branch  of  a  tree,  a  stick  leaning  against  the 
trunk,  and  a  person  seated  on  the  grassy  verge  of  the 
spring,  with  his  back  towards  me.  He  was  a  slender 
figure,  dressed  in  black  broadcloth,  which  was  none  of 
the  finest  nor  very  fashionably  cut.  On  hearing  my 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.    465 

footsteps  he  started  up  rather  nervously,  and,  turning 
round,  showed  the  face  of  a  young  man  about  my  own 
age,  with  his  finger  in  a  volume  which  he  had  been 
reading  till  my  intrusion.  His  book  was  evidently  a 
pocket  Bible.  Though  I  piqued  myself  at  that  period 
on  my  great  penetration  into  people's  characters  and 
pursuits,  I  could  not  decide  whether  this  young  man  in 
black  were  an  unfledged  divine  from  Andover,  a  col 
lege  student,  or  preparing  for  college  at  some  acad 
emy.  In  either  case  I  would  quite  as  willingly  have 
found  a  merrier  companion  ;  such,  for  instance,  as  the 
comedian  with  whom  Gil  Bias  shared  his  dinner  be 
side  a  fountain  in  Spain. 

After  a  nod  which  was  duly  returned,  I  made  a  gob 
let  of  oak  leaves,  filled  and  emptied  it  two  or  three 
times,  and  then  remarked,  to  hit  the  stranger's  classi 
cal  associations,  that  this  beautiful  fountain  ought  to 
flow  from  an  urn  instead  of  an  old  barrel.  He  did 
not  show  that  he  understood  the  allusion,  and  replied 
very  briefly,  with  a  shyness  that  was  quite  out  of  place 
between  persons  who  met  in  such  circumstances.  Had 
he  treated  my  next  observation  in  the  same  way,  we 
should  have  parted  without  another  word. 

"  It  is  very  singular,"  said  I,  —  "  though  doubtless 
there  are  good  reasons  for  it,  —  that  Nature  should 
provide  drink  so  abundantly,  and  lavish  it  everywhere 
by  the  roadside,  but  so  seldom  anything  to  eat.  Why 
should  we  not  find  a  loaf  of  bread  on  this  tree  as  well 
as  a  barrel  of  good  liquor  at  the  foot  of  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  loaf  of  bread  on  the  tree,"  replied  the 
stranger,  without  even  smiling  at  a  coincidence  which 
made  me  laugh.  "  I  have  something  to  eat  in  my 
bundle  ;  and,  if  you  can  make  a  dinner  with  me,  you 
shall  be  welcome." 


466          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  I  accept  your  offer  with  pleasure,"  said  I.  "  A 
pilgrim  such  as  I  am  must  not  refuse  a  providential 
meal." 

The  young  man  had  risen  to  take  his  bundle  from 
the  branch  of  the  tree,  but  now  turned  round  and  re 
garded  me  with  great  earnestness,  coloring  deeply  at 
the  same  time.  However,  he  said  nothing,  and  pro 
duced  part  of  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  cheese,  the 
former  being  evidently  home-baked,  though  some  days 
out  of  the  oven.  The  fare  was  good  enough,  with  a 
real  welcome,  such  as  his  appeared  to  be.  After 
spreading  these  articles  on  the  stump  of  a  tree,  he 
proceeded  to  ask  a  blessing  on  our  food,  an  unex 
pected  ceremony,  and  quite  an  impressive  one  at  our 
woodland  table,  with  the  fountain  gushing  beside  us 
and  the  bright  sky  glimmering  through  the  boughs  ; 
nor  did  his  brief  petition  affect  me  less  because  his 
embarrassment  made  his  voice  tremble.  At  the  end  of 
the  meal  he  returned  thanks  with  the  same  tremulous 
fervor. 

He  felt  a  natural  kindness  for  me  after  thus  reliev 
ing  my  necessities,  and  showed  it  by  becoming  less  re 
served.  On  my  part,  I  professed  never  to  have  rel 
ished  a  dinner  better;  and,  in  requital  of  the  stran 
ger's  hospitality,  solicited  the  pleasure  of  his  company 
to  supper. 

"  Where  ?     At  your  home  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  smiling. 

"Perhaps  our  roads  are  not  the  same,"  observed  he. 

"  Oh,  I  can  take  any  road  but  one,  and  yet  not  miss 
my  way,"  answered  I.  "  This  morning  I  breakfasted 
at  home  ;  I  shall  sup  at  home  to-night ;  and  a  moment 
ago  I  dined  at  home.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  certain 
place  which  I  called  home  ;  but  I  have  resolved  not  to 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.    467 

see  it  again  till  I  have  been  quite  round  the  globe  and 
enter  the  street  on  the  east  as  I  left  it  on  the  west. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  have  a  home  everywhere  or  no 
where,  just  as  you  please  to  take  it." 

"  Nowhere,  then ;  for  this  transitory  world  is  not 
our  home,"  said  the  young  man,  with  solemnity.  "  We 
are  all  pilgrims  and  wanderers ;  but  it  is  strange  that 
we  two  should  meet." 

I  inquired  the  meaning  of  this  remark,  but  could 
obtain  no  satisfactory  reply.  But  we  had  eaten  salt 
together,  and  it  was  right  that  we  should  form  ac 
quaintance  after  that  ceremony  as  the  Arabs  of  the 
desert  do,  especially  as  he  had  learned  something 
about  myself,  and  the  courtesy  of  the  country  entitled 
me  to  as  much  information  in  return.  I  asked  whither 
he  was  travelling. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  he  ;  "  but  God  knows." 

"  That  is  strange  !  "  exclaimed  I ;  "  not  that  God 
should  know  it,  but  that  you  should  not.  And  how  is 
your  road  to  be  pointed  out  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  by  an  inward  conviction,"  he  replied, 
looking  sideways  at  me  to  discover  whether  I  smiled ; 
"  perhaps  by  an  outward  sign." 

"  Then,  believe  me,"  said  I,  "  the  outward  sign  is 
already  granted  you,  and  the  inward  conviction  ought 
to  follow.  We  are  told  of  pious  men  in  old  times  who 
committed  themselves  to  the  care  of  Providence,  and 
saw  the  manifestation  of  its  will  in  the  slightest  cir 
cumstances,  as  in  the  shooting  of  a  star,  the  flight  of  a 
bird,  or  the  course  taken  by  some  brute  animal.  Some 
times  even  a  stupid  ass  was  their  guide.  May  not  I 
be  as  good  a  one  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  pilgrim,  with  perfect  sim 
plicity. 


468          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

We  did,  however,  follow  the  same  road,  and  were 
not  overtaken,  as  I  partly  apprehended,  by  the  keepers 
of  any  lunatic  asylum  in  pursuit  of  a  stray  patient. 
Perhaps  the  stranger  felt  as  much  doubt  of  my  sanity 
as  I  did  of  his,  though  certainly  with  less  justice,  since 
I  was  fully  aware  of  my  own  extravagances,  while  he 
acted  as  wildly  and  deemed  it  heavenly  wisdom.  We 
were  a  singular  couple,  strikingly  contrasted,  yet  cu 
riously  assimilated,  each  of  us  remarkable  enough  by 
himself,  and  doubly  so  in  the  other's  company.  With 
out  any  formal  compact,  we  kept  together  day  after 
day  till  our  union  appeared  permanent.  Even  had  I 
seen  nothing  to  love  and  admire  in  him,  I  could  never 
have  thought  of  deserting  one  who  needed  me  continu 
ally  ;  for  I  never  knew  a  person,  not  even  a  woman, 
so  unfit  to  roam  the  world  in  solitude  as  he  was  —  so 
painfully  shy,  so  easily  discouraged  by  slight  obstacles, 
and  so  often  depressed  by  a  weight  within  himself. 

I  was  now  far  from  my  native  place,  but  had  not 
yet  stepped  before  the  public.  A  slight  tremor  seized 
me  whenever  I  thought  of  relinquishing  the  immuni 
ties  of  a  private  character,  and  giving  every  man,  and 
for  money  too,  the  right,  which  no  man  yet  possessed, 
of  treating  me  with  open  scorn.  But  about  a  week 
after  contracting  the  above  alliance  I  made  my  bow 
to  an  audience  of  nine  persons,  seven  of  whom  hissed 
me  in  a  very  disagreeable  manner,  and  not  without 
good  cause.  Indeed,  the  failure  was  so  signal  that  it 
would  have  been  mere  swindling  to  retain  the  money, 
which  had  been  paid  on  my  implied  contract  to  give 
its  value  of  amusement.  So  I  called  in  the  door 
keeper,  bade  him  refund  the  whole  receipts,  a  mighty 
sum,  and  was  gratified  with  the  round  of  applause 
by  way  of  offset  to  the  hisses.  This  event  would 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.     469 

have  looked  most  horrible  in  anticipation,  —  a  thing 
to  make  a  man  shoot  himself,  or  run  amuck,  or  hide 
himself  in  caverns  where  he  might  not  see  his  own 
burning  blush ;  but  the  reality  was  not  so  very  hard 
to  bear.  It  is  a  fact  that  I  was  more  deeply  grieved 
by  an  almost  parallel  misfortune  which  happened  to 
my  companion  on  the  same  evening.  In  my  own 
behalf  I  was  angry  and  excited,  not  depressed;  my 
blood  ran  quick,  my  spirits  rose  buoyantly,  and  I  had 
never  felt  such  a  confidence  of  future  success  and  de 
termination  to  achieve  it  as  at  that  trying  moment. 
I  resolved  to  persevere,  if  it  were  only  to  wring  the 
reluctant  praise  from  my  enemies. 

Hitherto  I  had  immensely  underrated  the  difficul 
ties  of  my  idle  trade  ;  now  I  recognized  that  it  de 
manded  nothing  short  of  my  whole  powers,  cultivated 
to  the  utmost,  and  exerted  with  the  same  prodigality 
as  if  I  were  speaking  for  a  great  party  or  for  the 
nation  at  large  on  the  floor  of  the  Capitol.  No  talent 
or  attainment  could  come  amiss ;  everything,  indeed, 
was  requisite  —  wide  observation,  varied  knowledge, 
deep  thoughts,  and  sparkling  ones ;  pathos  and  levity, 
and  a  mixture  of  both,  like  sunshine  in  a  raindrop ; 
lofty  imagination,  veiling  itself  in  the  garb  of  common 
life ;  and  the  practised  art  which  alone  could  render 
these  gifts,  and  more  than  these,  available.  Not  that 
I  ever  hoped  to  be  thus  qualified.  But  my  despair 
was  no  ignoble  one,  for  knowing  the  impossibility  of 
satisfying  myself,  even  should  the  world  be  satisfied, 
I  did  my  best  to  overcome  it ;  investigated  the  causes 
of  every  defect ;  and  strove,  with  patient  stubbornness, 
to  remove  them  in  the  next  attempt.  It  is  one  of  my 
few  sources  of  pride,  that,  ridiculous  as  the  object  was, 
I  followed  it  up  with  the  firmness  and  energy  of  a 
man. 


470          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

I  manufactured  a  great  variety  of  plots  and  skele 
tons  of  tales,  and  kept  them  ready  for  use,  leaving  the 
filling  up  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment ;  though  I 
cannot  remember  ever  to  have  told  a  tale  .which  did 
not  vary  considerably  from  my  preconceived  idea,  and 
acquire  a  novelty  of  aspect  as  often  as  I  repeated  it. 
Oddly  enough,  my  success  was  generally  in  proportion 
to  the  difference  between  the  conception  and  accom 
plishment.  I  provided  two  or  more  commencements 
and  catastrophes  to  many  of  the  tales,  —  a  happy  ex 
pedient,  suggested  by  the  double  sets  of  sleeves  and 
trimmings  which  diversified  the  suits  in  Sir  Piercy 
Shafton's  wardrobe.  But  my  best  efforts  had  a  unity, 
a  wholeness,  and  a  separate  character  that  did  not  ad 
mit  of  this  sort  of  mechanism. 

THE   VILLAGE   THEATRE. 

About  the  first  of  September  my  fellow-traveller 
and  myself  arrived  at  a  country  town,  where  a  small 
company  of  actors,  on  their  return  from  a  summer's 
campaign  in  the  British  provinces,  were  giving  a 
series  of  dramatic  exhibitions.  A  moderately  sized 
hall  of  the  tavern  had  been  converted  into  a  theatre. 
The  performances  that  evening  were,  The  Heir  at 
Law,  and  No  Song,  no  Supper,  with  the  recitation 
of  Alexander's  Feast  between  the  play  and  farce. 
The  house  was  thin  and  dull.  But  the  next  day  there 
appeared  to  be  brighter  prospects,  the  play-bills  an 
nouncing  at  every  corner,  on  the  town  pump,  and  — 
awful  sacrilege! — on  the  very  door  of  the  meeting 
house,  an  Unprecedented  Attraction  !  After  setting 
forth  the  ordinary  entertainments  of  a  theatre,  the 
public  were  informed,  in  the  hugest  type  that  the 
printing-office  could  supply,  that  the  manager  had 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.     471 

been  fortunate  enough  to  accomplish  an  engagement 
with  the  celebrated  Story  Teller.  He  would  make 
his  first  appearance  that  evening,  and  recite  his  fa 
mous  tale  of  Mr.  Higginbotham's  Catastrophe,  which 
had  been  received  with  rapturous  applause  by  au 
diences  in  all  the  principal  cities.  This  outrageous 
flourish  of  trumpets,  be  it  known,  was  wholly  un 
authorized  by  me,  who  had  merely  made  an  engage 
ment  for  a  single  evening,  without  assuming  any  more 
celebrity  than  the  little  I  possessed.  As  for  the  tale, 
it  could  hardly  have  been  applauded  by  rapturous  au 
diences,  being  as  yet  an  unfilled  plot ;  nor  even  when 
I  stepped  upon  the  stage  was  it  decided  whether  Mr. 
Higginbotham  should  live  or  die. 

In  two  or  three  places,  underneath  the  flaming  bills 
which  announced  the  Story  Teller,  was  pasted  a  small 
slip  of  paper,  giving  notice,  in  tremulous  characters, 
of  a  religious  meeting  to  be  held  at  the  school-house, 
where,  with  divine  permission,  Eliakim  Abbott  would 
address  sinners  on  the  welfare  of  their  immortal  souls. 

In  the  evening,  after  the  commencement  of  the  trag 
edy  of  Douglas,  I  took  a  ramble  through  the  town  to 
quicken  my  ideas  by  active,  motion.  My  spirits  were 
good,  with  a  certain  glow  of  mind  which  I  had  al 
ready  learned  to  depend  upon  as  the  sure  prognostic 
of  success.  Passing  a  small  and  solitary  school-house, 
where  a  light  was  burning  dimly  and  a  few  people 
were  entering  the  door,  I  went  in  with  them,  and  saw 
my  friend  Eliakim  at  the  desk.  He  had  collected 
about  fifteen  hearers,  mostly  females.  Just  as  I  en 
tered  he  was  beginning  to  pray  in  accents  so  low  and 
interrupted  that  he  seemed  to  doubt  the  reception  of 
his  efforts  both  with  God  and  man.  There  was  room 
for  distrust  in  regard  to  the  latter.  At  the  conclusion 


472          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

of  the  prayer  several  of  the  little  audience  went  out, 
leaving  him  to  begin  his  discourse  under  such  discour 
aging  circumstances,  added  to  his  natural  and  agoniz 
ing  diffidence.  Knowing  that  my  presence  on  these 
occasions  increased  his  embarrassment,  I  had  stationed 
myself  in  a  dusky  place  near  the  door,  and  now  stole 
softly  out. 

On  my  return  to  the  tavern  the  tragedy  was  al 
ready  concluded ;  and,  being  a  feeble  one  in  itself  and 
indifferently  performed,  it  left  so  much  the  better 
chance  for  the  Story  Teller.  The  bar  was  thronged 
with  customers,  the  toddy  stick  keeping  a  continual 
tattoo ;  while  in  the  hall  there  was  a  broad,  deep, 
buzzing  sound,  with  an  occasional  peal  of  impatient 
thunder,  —  all  symptoms  of  an  overflowing  house  and 
an  eager  audience.  I  drank  a  glass  of  wine  and 
water,  and  stood  at  the  side  scene  conversing  with  a 
young  person  of  doubtful  sex.  If  a  gentleman,  how 
could  he  have  performed  the  singing  girl  the  night 
before  in  No  Song,  no  Supper?  Or,  if  a  lady,  why 
did  she  enact  Young  Norval,  and  now  wear  a  green 
coat  and  white  pantaloons  in  the  character  of  Little 
Pickle  ?  In  either  case  the  dress  was  pretty  and  the 
wearer  bewitching ;  so  that,  at  the  proper  moment,  I 
stepped  forward  with  a  gay  heart  and  a  bold  one; 
while  the  orchestra  played  a  tune  that  had  resounded 
at  many  a  country  ball,  and  the  curtain  as  it  rose  dis 
covered  something  like  a  country  bar-room.  Such  a 
scene  was  well  enough  adapted  to  such  a  tale. 

The  orchestra  of  our  little  theatre  consisted  of  two 
fiddles  and  a  clarinet ;  but,  if  the  whole  harmony  of 
the  Tremont  had  been  there,  it  might  have  swelled  in 
vain  beneath  the  tumult  of  applause  that  greeted  me. 
The  good  people  of  the  town,  knowing  that  the  world 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.     473 

contained  innumerable  persons  of  celebrity  undreamed 
of  by  them,  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was  one,  and 
that  their  roar  of  welcome  was  but  a  feeble  echo  of 
those  which  had  thundered  around  me  in  lofty  thea 
tres.  Such  an  enthusiastic  uproar  was  never  heard. 
Each  person  seemed  a  Briareus  clapping  a  hundred 
hands,  besides  keeping  his  feet  and  several  cudgels  in 
play  with  stamping  and  thumping  on  the  floor ;  while 
the  ladies  flourished  their  white  cambric  handker 
chiefs,  intermixed  with  yellow  and  red  bandanna,  like 
the  flags  of  different  nations.  After  such  a  saluta 
tion,  the  celebrated  Story  Teller  felt  almost  ashamed 
to  produce  so  humble  an  affair  as  Mr.  Higginbotham's 
Catastrophe. 

This  story  was  originally  more  dramatic  than  as 
there  presented,  and  afforded  good  scope  for  mimicry 
and  buffoonery,  neither  of  which,  to  my  shame,  did  I 
spare.  I  never  knew  the  "  magic  of  a  name  "  till  I 
used  that  of  Mr.  Higginbotham.  Often  as  I  repeated 
it,  there  were  louder  bursts  of  merriment  than  those 
which  responded  to  what,  in  my  opinion,  were  more 
legitimate  strokes  of  humor.  The  success  of  the  piece 
was  incalculably  heightened  by  a  stiff  cue  of  horse 
hair,  which  Little  Pickle,  in  the  spirit  of  that  mischief- 
loving  character,  had  fastened  to  my  collar,  where, 
unknown  to  me,  it  kept  making  the  queerest  gestures 
of  its  own  in  correspondence  with  all  mine.  The  au 
dience,  supposing  that  some  enormous  joke  was  ap 
pended  to  this  long  tail  behind,  were  ineffably  de 
lighted,  and  gave  way  to  such  a  tumult  of  approbation 
that,  just  as  the  story  closed,  the  benches  broke  be 
neath  them  and  left  one  whole  row  of  my  admirers  on 
the  floor.  Even  in  that  predicament  they  continued 
their  applause.  In  after  times,  when  I  had  grown  a 


474          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

bitter  moralizer,  I  took  this  scene  for  an  example  how 
much  of  fame  is  humbug;  how  much  the  meed  of 
what  our  better  nature  blushes  at ;  how  much  an  ac 
cident  ;  how  much  bestowed  on  mistaken  principles ; 
and  how  small  and  poor  the  remnant.  From  pit  and 
boxes  there  was  now  a  universal  call  for  the  Story 
TeUer. 

That  celebrated  personage  came  not  when  they  did 
call  to  him.  As  I  left  the  stage,  the  landlord,  being 
also  the  postmaster,  had  given  me  a  letter  with  the 
postmark  of  my  native  village,  and  directed  to  my 
assumed  name  in  the  stiff  old  handwriting  of  Parson 
Thumpcushion.  Doubtless  he  had  heard  of  the  rising 
renown  of  the  Story  Teller,  and  conjectured  at  once 
that  such  a  nondescript  luminary  could  be  no  other 
than  his  lost  ward.  His  epistle,  though  I  never  read 
it,  affected  me  most  painfully.  I  seemed  to  see  the 
Puritanic  figure  of  my  guardian  standing  among  the 
fripperies  of  the  theatre  and  pointing  to  the  players, 
—  the  fantastic  and  effeminate  men,  the  painted 
women,  the  giddy  girl  in  boy's  clothes,  merrier  than 
modest,  —  pointing  to  these  with  solemn  ridicule,  and 
eying  me  with  stern  rebuke.  His  image  was  a  type 
of  the  austere  duty,  and  they  of  the  vanities  of  life. 

I  hastened  with  the  letter  to  my  chamber  and  held 
it  unopened  in  my  hand  while  the  applause  of  my 
buffoonery  yet  sounded  through  the  theatre.  Another 
train  of  thought  came  over  me.  The  stern  old  man 
appeared  again,  but  now  with  the  gentleness  of  sor 
row,  softening  his  authority  with  love  as  a  father 
might,  and  even  bending  his  venerable  head,  as  if  to 
say  that  my  errors  had  an  apology  in  his  own  mis 
taken  discipline.  I  strode  twice  across  the  chamber, 
flien  held  the  letter  in  the  flame  of  the  candle,  and 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK.     475 

beheld  it  consume  unread.  It  is  fixed  in  my  mind, 
and  was  so  at  the  time,  that  he  had  addressed  me  in  a 
style  of  paternal  wisdom,  and  love,  and  reconciliation, 
which  I  could  not  have  resisted  had  I  but  risked  the 
trial.  The  thought  still  haunts  me  that  then  I  made  j 
my  irrevocable  choice  between  good  and  evil  fate. 

Meanwhile,  as  this  occurrence  had  disturbed  my 
mind,  and  indisposed  me  to  the  present  exercise  of  my 
profession,  I  left  the  town,  in  spite  of  a  laudatory 
critique  in  the  newspaper,  and  untempted  by  the  lib 
eral  offers  of  the  manager.  As  we  walked  onward, 
following  the  same  road,  on  two  such  different  errands, 
Eliakim  groaned  in  spirit,  and  labored  with  tears  to 
convince  me  of  the  guilt  and  madness  of  my  life. 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 

THE   NOTCH    OF   THE   WHITE   MOUNTAINS. 

IT  was  now  the  middle  of  September.  We  hntK 
come  since  sunrise  from  Ejartlett,  passing  up  through 
the  valley  of  the  Saco,  which  extends  between  moun 
tainous  walls,  sometimes  with  a  steep  ascent,  but  often 
as  level  as  a  church  aisle.  All  that  day  and  two  pre 
ceding  ones  we  had  been  loitering  towards  the  heart 
of  the  White  Mountains,  —  those  old  crystal  hills, 
whose  mysterious  brilliancy  had  gleamed  upon  our 
distant  wanderings  before  we  thought  of  visiting 
them.  Height  after  height  had  risen  and  towered 
one  above  another  till  the  clouds  began  to  hang  below 
the  peaks.  Down  their  slopes  were  the  red  pathways 
of  the  slides,  those  avalanches  of  earth,  stones  and 
trees,  which  descend  into  the  hollows,  leaving  vestiges 
of  their  track  hardly  to  be  effaced  by  the  vegetation 
of  ages.  We  had  mountains  behind  us  and  mountains 
on  each  side,  and  a  group  of  mightier  ones  ahead. 
Still  our  road  went  up  along  the  Saco,  right  towards 
the  centre  of  that  group,  as  if  to  climb  above  the 
clouds  in  its  passage  to  the  farther  region. 

In  old  times  the  settlers  used  to  be  astounded  by 
the  inroads  of  the  northern  Indians  coining  down 
upon  them  from  this  mountain  rampart  through  some 
defile  known  only  to  themselves.  It  is,  indeed,  a  won 
drous  path.  A  demon,  it  might  be  fancied,  or  one  of 
the  Titans,  was  travelling  up  the  valley,  elbowing  the 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  477 

heights  carelessly  aside  as  he  passed,  till  at  length  a 
great  mountain  took  its  stand  directly  across  his  in 
tended  road.  He  tarries  not  for  such  an  obstacle,  but, 
rending  it  asunder  a  thousand  feet  from  peak  to  base, 
discloses  its  treasures  of  hidden  minerals,  its  sunless 
waters,  all  the  secrets  of  the  mountain's  inmost  heart., 
with  a  mighty  fracture  of  rugged  precipices  on  each 
side.  This  is  the  Notch  of  the  White  Hills.  Shame 
on  me  that  I  have  attempted  to  describe  it  by  so  mean 
an  image  —  feeling,  as  I  do,  that  it  is  one  of  those 
symbolic  scenes  which  lead  the  mind  to  the  sentiment, 
though  not  to  the  conception,  of  Omnipotence. 

We  had  now  reached  a  narrow  passage,  which 
showed  almost  the  appearance  of  having  been  cut  bj 
human  strength  and  artifice  in  the  solid  rock.  There 
was  a  wall  of  granite  on  each  side,  high  and  precip 
itous,  especially  on  our  right,  and  so  smooth  that  4 
few  evergreens  could  hardly  find  foothold  enough  to 
grow  there.  This  is  the  entrance,  or,  in  the  direction 
we  were  going,  the  extremity,  of  the  romantic  defile  oi 
the  Notch.  Before  emerging  from  it,  the  rattling  oi 
wheels  approached  behind  us,  and  a  stage-coach  rum 
bled  out  of  the  mountain,  with  seats  on  top  and  trunks 
behind,  and  a  smart  driver,  in  a  drab  greatcoat,  touch 
ing  the  wheel  horses  with  the  whipstock  and  reining 
in  the  leaders.  To  my  mind  there  was  a  sort  of  po 
etry  in  such  an  incident,  hardly  inferior  to  what  would 
have  accompanied  the  painted  array  of  an  Indian  war 
party  gliding  forth  from  the  same  wild  chasm.  All 
the  passengers,  except  a  very  fat  lady  on  the  back 
seat,  had  alighted.  One  was  a  mineralogist!  a  scien 
tific,  green-spectacled  figure  in  black,  bearing  a  heavy 
hammer,  with  which  he  did  great  damage  to  the  preo 


478          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ipices,  and  put  the  fragments  in  his  pocket.  Another 
was  a  well-dressed  young  man,  who  carried  an  opera 
glass  set  in  gold,  and  seemed  to  be  making  a  quota 
tion  from  some  of  Byron's  rhapsodies  on  mountain 
scenery.  There  was  also  a  trader,  returning  from 
Portland  to  the  upper  part  of  Vermont ;  and  a  fair 
young  girl,  with  a  very  faint  bloom  like  one  of  those 
pale  and  delicate  flowers  which  sometimes  occur  among 
alpine  cliffs. 

They  disappeared,  and  we  followed  them,  passing 
through  a  deep  pine  forest,  which  for  some  miles  al 
lowed  us  to  see  nothing  but  its  own  dismal  shade. 
Towards  nightfall  we  reached  a  level  amphitheatre, 
surrounded  by  a  great  rampart  of  hills,  which  shut  out 
the  sunshine  long  before  it  left  the  external  world.  It 
was  here  that  we  obtained  our  first  view,  except  at  a 
distance,  of  the  principal  group  of  mountains.  They 
are  majestic,  and  even  awful,  when  contemplated  in  a 
proper  mood,  yet,  by  their  breadth  of  base  and  the 
long  ridges  which  support  them,  give  the  idea  of  im 
mense  bulk  rather  than  of  towering  height.  Mount 
Washington,  indeed,  looked  near  to  heaven  :  he  was 
white  with  snow  a  mile  downward,  and  had  caught  the 
only  cloud  that  was  sailing  through  the  atmosphere  to 
veil  his  head.  Let  us  forget  the  other  names  of  Amer 
ican  statesmen  that  have  been  stamped  upon  these 
hills,  but  still  call  the  loftiest  WASHINGTON.  Moun 
tains  are  Earth's  undecaying  monuments.  They  must 
stand  while  she  endures,  and  never  should  be  conse 
crated  to  the  mere  great  men  of  their  own  age  and 
country,  but  to  the  mighty  ones  alone,  whose  glory  is 
universal,  and  whom  all  time  will  render  illustrious. 

The  air,  not  often  sultry  in  this  elevated  region, 
nearly  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  was  now  sharp 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  479 

Mid  cold,  like  that  of  a  clear  November  evening  in  the 
lowlands.  By  morning,  probably,  there  would  be  a 
frost,  if  not  a  snowfall,  on  the  grass  and  rye,  and  an 
icy  surface  over  the  standing  water.  I  was  glad  to 
perceive  a  prospect  of  comfortable  quarters  in  a  house 
which  we  were  approaching,  and  of  pleasant  company 
in  the  guests  who  were  assembled  at  the  door. 

OUR   EVENING   PARTY    AMONG   THE    MOUNTAINS. 

We  stood  in  front  of  a  good  substantial  farm-house, 
of  old  date  in  that  wild  country.  A  sign  over  the  door 
denoted  it  to  be  the  White  Mountain  Post  Office,  — 
an  establishment  which  distributes  letters  and  news 
papers  to  perhaps  a  score  of  persons,  comprising  the 
population  of  two  or  three  townships  among  the  hills. 
The  broad  and  weighty  antlers  of  a  deer,  "  a  stag  of 
ten,"  were  fastened  at  the  corner  of  the  house;  a 
fox's  bushy  tail  was  nailed  beneath  them ;  and  a  huge 
black  paw  lay  on  the  ground,  newly  severed  and  still 
bleeding  —  the  trophy  of  a  bear  hunt.  Among  sev 
eral  persons  collected  about  the  doorsteps,  the  most 
remarkable  was  a  sturdy  mountaineer,  of  six  feet  two 
and  corresponding  bulk,  with  a  heavy  set  of  features, 
such  as  might  be  moulded  on  his  own  blacksmith's  an 
vil,  but  yet  indicative  of  mother  wit  and  rough  hu 
mor.  As  we  appeared,  he  uplifted  a  tin  trumpet, 
four  or  five  feet  long,  and  blew  a  tremendous  blast, 
either  in  honor  of  our  arrival  or  to  awaken  an  echo 
from  the  opposite  hill. 

Ethan  Crawford's  guests  were  of  such  a  motley  de 
scription  as  to  form  quite  a  picturesque  group,  seldom 
seen  together  except  at  some  place  like  this,  at  once 
the  pleasure  house  of  fashionable  tourists  and  the 
homely  inn  of  country  travellers.  Among  the  com 


480          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

pany  at  the  door  were  the  mineralogist  and  the  ownei 
of  the  gold  opera  glass  whom  we  had  encountered  in 
the  Notch  ;  two  Georgian  gentlemen,  who  had  chilled 
their  southern  blood  that  morning  on  the  top  of  Mount 
Washington  ;  a  physician  and  his  wife  from  Conway  ; 
a  trader  of  Burlington,  and  an  old  squire  of  the  Green 
Mountains  ;  and  two  young  married  couples,  all  the 
way  from  Massachusetts,  on  the  matrimonial  jaunt, 
Besides  these  strangers,  the  rugged  county  of  Coos, 
in  which  we  were,  was  represented  by  half  a  dozen 
wood-cutters,  who  had  slain  a  bear  in  the  forest  and 
smitten  off  his  paw. 

I  had  joined  the  party,  and  had  a  moment's  leisure 
to  examine  them  before  the  echo  of  Ethan's  blast  re  • 
turned  from  the  hill.  Not  one,  but  many  echoes  had 
caught  up  the  harsh  and  tuneless  sound,  untwisted  its 
complicated  threads,  and  found  a  thousand  aerial  har 
monies  in  one  stern  trumpet  tone.  It  was  a  distinct! 
yet  distant  and  dreamlike  symphony  of  melodious  in 
struments,  as  if  an  airy  band  had  been  hidden  on  the 
hill-side  and  made  faint  music  at  the  summons.  No 
subsequent  trial  produced  so  clear,  delicate,  and  spir 
itual  a  concert  as  the  first.  A  field-piece  was  then  dis* 
charged  from  the  top  of  a  neighboring  hill,  and  gave 
birth  to  one  long  reverberation,  which  ran  round  the 
circle  of  mountains  in  an  unbroken  chain  of  sound 
and  rolled  away  without  a  separate  echo.  After  these 
experiments^  the  cold  atmosphere  drove  us  all  into  the 
house,  with  the  keenest  appetites  for  supper. 

It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  the  great  fires  that 
were  kindled  in  the  parlor  and  bar-room,  especially 
the  latter,  where  the  fireplace  was  built  of  rough  stone, 
and  might  have  contained  the  trunk  of  an  old  tree  for 
a  backlog.  A  man  keeps  a  comfortable  hearth  when 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  481 

his  own  forest  is  at  his  very  door.  In  the  parlor,  when 
the  evening  was  fairly  set  in,  we  held  our  hands  before 
our  eyes  to  shield  them  from  the  ruddy  glow,  and  be 
gan  a  pleasant  variety  of  conversation.  The  mineral 
ogist  and  the  physician  talked  about  the  invigorating 
qualities  of  the  mountain  air,  and  its  excellent  effect  on 
Ethan  Crawford's  father,  an  old  man  of  seventy-five, 
with  the  unbroken  frame  of  middle  life.  The  two 
brides  and  the  doctor's  wife  held  a  whispered  discus 
sion,  which,  by  their  frequent  titterings  and  a  blush  or 
two,  seemed  to  have  reference  to  the  trials  or  enjoy 
ments  of  the  matrimonial  state.  The  bridegrooms  sat 
together  in  a  corner,  rigidly  silent,  like  Quakers  whom 
the  spirit  moveth  not,  being  still  in  the  odd  predica 
ment  of  bashfulness  towards  their  own  young  wives. 
The  Green  Mountain  squire  chose  me  for  his  compan 
ion,  and  described  the  difficulties  he  had  met  with  half 
a  century  ago  in  travelling  from  the  Connecticut  Kiver 
through  the  Notch  to  Conway,  now  a  single  day's 
journey,  though  it  had  cost  him  eighteen.  The  Geor 
gians  held  the  album  between  them,  and  favored  us 
with  the  few  specimens  of  its  contents  which  they 
considered  ridiculous  enough  to  be  worth  hearing. 
One  extract  met  with  deserved  applause.  It  was  a 
44  Sonnet  to  the  Snow  on  Mount  Washington,"  and  had 
been  contributed  that  very  afternoon,  bearing  a  signa 
ture  of  great  distinction  in  magazines  and  annals. 
The  lines  were  elegant  and  full  of  fancy,  but  too  re 
mote  from  familiar  sentiment,  and  cold  as  their  subject, 
resembling  those  curious  specimens  of  crystallized  va 
por  which  I  observed  next  day  on  the  mountain  top. 
The  poet  was  understood  to  be  the  young  gentleman 
of  the  gold  opera  glass,  who  heard  our  laudatory  re 
marks  with  the  composure  of  a  veteran. 

VOL.   II.  31 


182          MOSSES   FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Such  was  our  party,  and  such  their  ways  of  amuse 
ment.  But  on  a  winter  evening  another  set  of  guests 
assembled  at  the  hearth  where  these  summer  travellers 
were  now  sitting.  I  once  had  it  in  contemplation  to 
spend  a  month  hereabouts,  in  sleighing  time,  for  the 
sake  of  studying  the  yeomen  of  New  England,  who 
then  elbow  each  other  through  the  Notch  by  hundreds,, 
on  their  way  to  Portland.  There  could  be  no  better 
school  for  such  a  place  than  Ethan  Crawford's  inn. 
Let  the  student  go  thither  in  December,  sit  down  with 
the  teamsters  at  their  meals,  share  their  evening  mer 
riment,  and  repose  with  them  at  night  when  every  bed 
has  its  three  occupants,  and  parlor,  bar-room,  and 
kitchen  are  strewn  with  slumberers  around  the  fire. 
Then  let  him  rise  before  daylight,  button  his  great 
coat,  muffle  up  his  ears,  and  stride  with  the  departing 
caravan  a  mile  or  two,  to  see  how  sturdily  they  make 
head  against  the  blast.  A  treasure  of  characteristic 
traits  will  repay  all  inconveniences,  even  should  a  fro 
zen  nose  be  of  the  number. 

The  conversation  of  our  party  soon  became  more 
animated  and  sincere,  and  we  recounted  some  tradi 
tions  of  the  Indians,  who  believed  that  the  father  and 
mother  of  their  race  were  saved  from  a  deluge  by  as 
cending  the  peak  of  Mount  Washington.  The  children 
of  that  pair  have  been  overwhelmed,  and  found  no  such 
refuge.  In  the  mythology  of  the  savage,  these  moun 
tains  were  afterwards  considered  sacred  and  inacces 
sible,  full  of  unearthly  wonders,  illuminated  at  lofty 
heights  by  the  blaze  of  precious  stones,  and  inhabited 
by  deities,  who  sometimes  shrouded  themselves  in 
the  snow-storm  and  came  down  on  the  lower  world. 
There  are  few  legends  more  poetical  than  that  of  the 
"  Great  Carbuncle"  of  the  White  Mountains.  The 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  483 

belief  was  communicated  to  the  English  settlers,  and 
is  hardly  yet  extinct,  that  a  gem,  of  such  immense 
size  as  to  be  seen  shining  miles  away,  hangs  from  a 
rock  over  a  clear,  deep  lake,  high  up  among  the  hills. 
They  who  had  once  beheld  its  splendor  were  inthralled 
with  an  unutterable  yearning  to  possess  it.  But  a 
spirit  guarded  that  inestimable  jewel,  and  bewildered 
the  adventurer  with  a  dark  mist  from  the  enchanted 
lake.  Thus  life  was  worn  away  in  the  vain  search 
for  an  unearthly  treasure,  till  at  length  the  deluded 
one  went  up  the  mountain,  still  sanguine  as  in  youth, 
but  returned  no  more.  On  this  theme  methinks  I 
could  frame  a  tale  with  a  deep  moral. 

The  hearts  of  the  pale-faces  would  not  thrill  to  these 
superstitions  of  the  red  men,  though  we  spoke  of  them 
in  the  centre  of  the  haunted  region.  The  habits  and 
sentiments  of  that  departed  people  were  too  distinct 
from  those  of  their  successors  to  find  much  real  sym 
pathy.  It  has  often  been  a  matter  of  regret  to  me 
that  I  was  shut  out  from  the  most  peculiar  field  of 
American  fiction  by  an  inability  to  see  any  romance, 
or  poetry,  or  grandeur,  or  beauty  in  the  Indian  char 
acter,  at  least  till  such  traits  were  pointed  out  by 
others.  I  do  abhor  an  Indian  story.  Yet  no  writer 
can  be  more  secure  of  a  permanent  place  in  our  litera 
ture  than  the  biographer  of  the  Indian  chiefs.  His 
subject,  as  referring  to  tribes  which  have  mostly  van 
ished  from  the  earth,  gives  him  a  right  to  be  placed  on 
a  classic  shelf,  apart  from  the  merits  which  will  sustain 
him  there. 

I  made  inquiries  whether,  in  his  researches  about 
these  parts,  our  mineralogist  had  found  the  three 
w  Silver  Hills  "  which  an  Indian  sachem  sold  to  an 
Englishman  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago,  and  the 


484          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

treasure  of  which  the  posterity  of  the  purchaser  have 
been  looking  for  ever  since.  But  the  man  of  science 
had  ransacked  every  hill  along  the  Saco,  and  knew 
nothing  of  these  prodigious  piles  of  wealth.  By  this 
time,  as  usual  with  men  on  the  eve  of  great  adventure, 
we  had  prolonged  our  session  deep  into  the  night,  con 
sidering  how  early  we  were  to  set  out  on  our  six  miles' 
ride  to  the  foot  of  Mount  Washington.  There  was 
now  a  general  breaking  up.  I  scrutinized  the  faces 
of  the  two  bridegrooms,  and  saw  but  little  probability 
of  their  leaving  the  bosom  of  earthly  bliss,  in  the  first 
week  of  the  honeymoon  and  at  the  frosty  hour  of 
three,  to  climb  above  the  clouds  ;  nor  when  I  felt  how 
sharp  the  wind  was  as  it  rushed  through  a  broken 
pane  and  eddied  between  the  chinks  of  my  unplastered 
chamber,  did  I  anticipate  much  alacrity  on  my  own 
part,  though  we  were  to  seek  for  the  "  Great  Car 
buncle." 

THE   CANAL   BOAT. 

I  was  inclined  to  be  poetical  about  the  Grand  Canal. 
In  my  imagination  De  Witt  Clinton  was  an  enchanter, 
who  had  waved  his  magic  wand  from  the  Hudson  to 
Lake  Erie  and  united  them  by  a  watery  highway, 
crowded  with  the  commerce  of  two  worlds,  till  then  in 
accessible  to  each  other.  This  simple  and  mighty  con 
ception  had  conferred  inestimable  value  on  spots  which 
Nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  carelessly  into  the  great 
body  of  the  earth,  without  foreseeing  that  they  could 
ever  attain  importance.  I  pictured  the  surprise  of  the 
sleepy  Dutchmen  when  the  new  river  first  glittered  by 
their  doors,  bringing  them  hard  cash  or  foreign  com 
modities  in  exchange  for  their  hitherto  unmarketable 
produce.  Surely  the  water  of  this  canal  must  be  the 
most  fertilizing  of  all  fluids  ;  for  it  causes  towns;  with 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  485 

their  masses  of  brick  and  stone,  their  churches  and 
theatres,  their  business  and  hubbub,  their  luxury  and 
refinement,  their  gay  dames  and  polished  citizens,  to 
spring  up,  till  in  time  the  wondrous  stream  may  flow 
between  two  continuous  lines  of  buildings,  through  one 
thronged  street,  from  Buffalo  to  Albany.  I  embarked 
about  thirty  miles  below  Utica,  determining  to  voyage 
along  the  whole  extent  of  the  canal  at  least  twice  in 
the  course  of  the  summer. 

Behold  us,  then,  fairly  afloat,  with  three  horses  har 
nessed  to  our  vessel,  like  the  steeds  of  Neptune  to  a 
huge  scallop  shell  in  mythological  pictures.  Bound  to 
a  distant  port,  we  had  neither  chart  nor  compass,  nor 
cared  about  the  wind,  nor  felt  the  heaving  of  a  billow, 
nor  dreaded  shipwreck,  however  fierce  the  tempest,  in 
our  adventurous  navigation  of  an  interminable  mud 
puddle  ;  for  a  mud  puddle  it  seemed,  and  as  dark  and 
turbid  as  if  every  kennel  in  the  land  paid  contribution 
to  it.  With  an  imperceptible  current,  it  holds  its 
drowsy  way  through  all  the  dismal  swamps  and  unim 
pressive  scenery  that  could  be  found  between  the  great 
lakes  and  the  sea-coast.  Yet  there  is  variety  enough, 
both  on  the  surface  of  the  canal  and  along  its  banks, 
to  amuse  the  traveller,  if  an  overpowering  tedium  did 
not  deaden  his  perceptions. 

Sometimes  we  met  a  black  and  rusty-looking  vessel, 
laden  with  lumber,  salt  from  Syracuse,  or  Genesee 
flour,  and  shaped  at  both  ends  like  a  square-toed  boot, 
as  if  it  had  two  sterns,  and  were  fated  always  to  ad 
vance  backward.  On  its  deck  would  be  a  square  hut, 
and  a  woman  seen  through  the  window  at  her  house 
hold  work,  with  a  little  tribe  of  children,  who  perhaps 
had  been  born  in  this  strange  dwelling  and  knew  no 
t>ther  home.  Thus,  while  the  husband  smoked  his  pipe 


486  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

at  the  helm,  and  the  eldest  son  rode  one  of  the  horses, 
on  went  the  family,  travelling  hundreds  of  miles  in 
their  own  house  and  carrying  their  fireside  with  them. 
The  most  frequent  species  of  craft  were  the  "  line 
boars,"  which  had  a  cabin  at  each  end,  and  a  great 
bulk  of  barrels,  bales,  and  boxes  in  the  midst,  or  light 
packets,  like  our  own,  decked  all  over  with  a  row  of 
curtained  windows  from  stem  to  stern,  and  a  drowsy 
face  at  every  one.  Once  we  encountered  a  boat  of 
rude  construction,  painted  all  in  gloomy  black,  and 
manned  by  three  Indians,  who  gazed  at  us  in  silence 
and  with  a  singular  fixedness  of  eye.  Perhaps  these 
three  alone,  among  the  ancient  possessors  of  the  land, 
had  attempted  to  derive  benefit  from  the  white  man's 
mighty  projects  and  float  along  the  current  of  his  en 
terprise.  Not  long  after,  in  the  midst  of  a  swamp  and 
beneath  a  clouded  sky,  we  overtook  a  vessel  that  seemed 
full  of  mirth  and  sunshine.  It  contained  a  little  colony 
of  Swiss  on  their  way  to  Michigan,  clad  in  garments 
of  strange  fashion  and  gay  colors,  scarlet,  yellow,  and 
bright  blue,  singing,  laughing,  and  making  merry  in 
odd  tones  and  a  babble  of  outlandish  words.  One 
pretty  damsel,  with  a  beautiful  pair  of  naked  white 
arms,  addressed  a  mirthful  remark  to  me.  She  spoke 
in  her  native  tongue,  and  I  retorted  in  good  English, 
both  of  us  laughing  heartily  at  each  other's  unintel 
ligible  wit.  I  cannot  describe  how  pleasantly  this  in 
cident  affected  me.  These  honest  Swiss  were  an  itin 
erant  community  of  jest  and  fun  journeying  through  a 
gloomy  land  and  among  a  dull  race  of  money-getting 
drudges,  meeting  none  to  understand  their  mirth,  and 
only  one  to  sympathize  with  it,  yet  still  retaining  the 
*iappy  lightness  of  their  own  spirit. 
Had  I  been  on  my  feet  at  the  time  instead  of  sailing 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  487 

slowly  along  in  a  dirty  canal  boat,  I  should  often  have 
paused  to  contemplate  the  diversified  panorama  along 
the  banks  of  the  canal.  Sometimes  the  scene  was  a 
forest,  dark,  dense,  and  impervious,  breaking  away  oc 
casionally  and  receding  from  a  lonely  tract,  covered 
with  dismal  black  stumps  where,  on  the  verge  of  the 
canal,  might  be  seen  a  log  cottage  and  a  sallow-faced 
woman  at  the  window.  Lean  and  aguish,  she  looked 
like  poverty  personified,  half  -  clothed,  half -fed,  and 
dwelling  in  a  desert,  while  a  tide  of  wealth  was  sweep 
ing  by  her  door.  Two  or  three  miles  farther  would 
bring  us  to  a  lock,  where  the  slight  impediment  to  nav 
igation  had  created  a  little  mart  of  trade.  Here  would 
be  found  commodities  of  all  sorts,  enumerated  in  yellow 
letters  on  the  window  shutters  of  a  small  grocery  store, 
the  owner  of  which  had  set  his  soul  to  the  gathering  of 
coppers  and  small  change,  buying  and  selling  through 
the  week,  and  counting  his  gains  on  the  blessed  Sab 
bath.  The  next  scene  might  be  the  dwelling-houses 
and  stores  of  a  thriving  village,  built  of  wood  or  small 
gray  stones,  a  church  spire  rising  in  the  midst,  and 
generally  two  taverns,  bearing  over  their  piazzas  the 
pompous  titles  of  "  hotel,"  "  exchange,"  "  tontine,"  or 
"  coffee-house."  Passing  on,  we  glide  now  into  the  un 
quiet  heart  of  an  inland  city,  —  of  Utica,  for  instance, 
—  and  find  ourselves  amid  piles  of  brick,  crowded 
docks  and  quays,  rich  warehouses,  and  a  busy  popula 
tion.  We  feel  the  eager  and  hurrying  spirit  of  the 
place,  like  a  stream  and  eddy  whirling  us  along  with 
it.  Through  the  thickest  of  the  tumult  goes  the  canal, 
flowing  between  lofty  rows  of  buildings  and  arched 
bridges  of  hewn  stone.  Onward,  also,  go  we,  till  the 
hum  and  bustle  of  struggling  enterprise  die  away  be 
hind  us  and  we  are  threading  an  avenue  of  the  ancient 
Woods  again. 


488          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

This  sounds  not  amiss  in  description,  but  was  so  tire 
some  in  reality  that  we  were  driven  to  the  most  childish 
expedients  for  amusement.  An  English  traveller  pa 
raded  the  deck,  with  a  rifle  in  his  walking  stick,  and 
waged  war  on  squirrels  and  woodpeckers,  sometimes 
sending  an  unsuccessful  bullet  among  flocks  of  tame 
ducks  and  geese  which  abound  in  the  dirty  water  of  the 
canal.  I,  also,  pelted  these  foolish  birds  with  apples, 
and  smiled  at  the  ridiculous  earnestness  of  their  scram 
bles  for  the  prize  while  the  apple  bobbed  about  like  a 
thing  of  life.  Several  little  accidents  afforded  us  good- 
natured  diversion.  At  the  moment  of  changing  horses 
the  tow-rope  caught  a  Massachusetts  farmer  by  the  leg 
and  threw  him  down  in  a  very  indescribable  posture, 
leaving  a  purple  mark  around  his  sturdy  limb.  A  new 
passenger  fell  flat  on  his  back  in  attempting  to  step  on 
deck  as  the  boat  emerged  from  under  a  bridge.  An 
other,  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  as  good  luck  would  have 
it,  being  told  to  leap  aboard  from  the  bank,  forthwith 
plunged  up  to  his  third  waistcoat  button  in  the  canal, 
and  was  fished  out  in  a  very  pitiable  plight,  not  at  all 
amended  by  our  three  rounds  of  applause.  Anon  a 
Virginia  schoolmaster,  too  intent  on  a  pocket  Virgil 
to  heed  the  helmsman's  warning,  "  Bridge  !  bridge  !  " 
was  saluted  by  the  said  bridge  on  his  knowledge  box. 
I  had  prostrated  myself  like  a  pagan  before  his  idol, 
but  heard  the  dull,  leaden  sound  of  the  contact,  and 
fully  expected  to  see  the  treasures  of  the  poor  man's 
cranium  scattered  about  the  deck.  However,  as  there 
was  no  harm  done,  except  a  large  bump  on  the  head, 
and  probably  a  corresponding  dent  in  the  bridge,  the 
rest  of»us  exchanged  glances  and  laughed  quietly.  Oh, 
how  pitiless  are  idle  people ! 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  489 

The  table  being  now  lengthened  through  the  cabin 
and  spread  for  supper,  the  next  twenty  minutes  were 
the  pleasantest  I  had  spent  on  the  canal,  the  same  space 
at  dinner  excepted.  At  the  close  of  the  meal  it  had  be 
come  dusky  enough  for  lamplight.  The  rain  pattered 
unceasingly  on  the  deck,  and  sometimes  came  with  a 
sullen  rush  against  the  windows,  driven  by  the  wind 
as  it  stirred  through  an  opening  of  the  forest.  The 
intolerable  dulness  of  the  scene  engendered  an  evil 
spirit  in  me.  Perceiving  that  the  Englishman  was  tak 
ing  notes  in  a  memorandum  book,  with  occasional 
glances  round  the  cabin,  I  presumed  that  we  were  all 
to  figure  in  a  future  volume  of  travels,  and  amused 
my  ill  humor  by  falling  into  the  probable  vein  of  his 
remarks.  He  would  hold  up  an  imaginary  mirror, 
wherein  our  reflected  faces  would  appear  ugly  and 
ridiculous,  yet  still  retain  an  undeniable  likeness  to  the 
originals.  Then,  with  more  sweeping  malice,  he  would 
make  these  caricatures  the  representatives  of  great 
classes  of  my  countrymen. 

He  glanced  at  the  Virginia  schoolmaster,  a  Yankee 
by  birth,  who,  to  recreate  himself,  was  examining  a 
freshman  from  Schenectady  College  in  the  conjugation 
of  a  Greek  verb.  Him  the  Englishman  would  por 
tray  as  the  scholar  of  America,  and  compare  his  erudi 
tion  to  a  schoolboy's  Latin  theme  made  up  of  scraps 
ill  selected  and  worse  put  together.  Next  the  tourist 
looked  at  the  Massachusetts  farmer,  who  was  delivering 
a  dogmatic  harangue  on  the  iniquity  of  Sunday  mails. 
Here  was  the  far-famed  yeoman  of  New  England ;  his 
religion,  writes  the  Englishman,  is  gloom  on  the  Sab 
bath,  long  prayers  every  morning  and  eventide,  and 
illiberality  at  all  times ;  his  boasted  information  is 
merely  an  abstract  and  compound  of  newspaper  para- 


±90  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

graphs,  Congress  debates,  caucus  harangues,  and  the 
argument  and  judge's  charge  in  his  own  lawsuits.  The 
bookmonger  cast  his  eye  at  a  Detroit  merchant,  and 
began  scribbling  faster  than  ever.  In  this  sharp-eyed 
man,  this  lean  man,  of  wrinkled  brow,  we  see  daring 
enterprise  and  close-fisted  avarice  combined.  Here  is 
the  worshipper  of  Mammon  at  noonday ;  here  is  the 
three  times  bankrupt,  richer  after  every  ruin  ;  here,  in 
one  word,  (O  wicked  Englishman  to  say  it !)  here  is 
the  American.  He  lifted  his  eye-glass  to  inspect  a 
western  lady,  who  at  once  became  aware  of  the  glance, 
reddened,  and  retired  deeper  into  the  female  part  of 
the  cabin.  Here  was  the  pure,  modest,  sensitive,  and 
shrinking  woman  of  America,  —  shrinking  when  no 
evil  is  intended,  and  sensitive  like  diseased  flesh,  that 
thrills  if  you  but  point  at  it ;  and  strangely  modest, 
without  confidence  in  the  modesty  of  other  people; 
and  admirably  pure,  with  such  a  quick  apprehension 
of  all  impurity. 

In  this  manner  I  went  all  through  the  cabin,  hitting 
everybody  as  hard  a  lash  as  I  could,  and  laying  the 
whole  blame  on  the  infernal  Englishman.  At  length  I 
caught  the  eyes  of  my  own  image  in  the  looking-glass, 
where  a  number  of  the  party  were  likewise  reflected, 
and  among  them  the  Englishman,  who  at  that  moment 
was  intently  observing  myself. 

The  crimson  curtain  being  let  down  between  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  cabin  became  a  bedchamber 
for  twenty  persons,  who  were  laid  on  shelves  one  above 
another.  For  a  long  time  our  various  incommodities 
kept  us  all  awake  except  five  or  six,  who  were  accus 
tomed  to  sleep  nightly  amid  the  uproar  of  their  own 
snoring,  and  had  little  to  dread  from  any  other  speciea 


SKETCHES  FROM   MEMORY.  491 

of  disturbance.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  these  snorers 
had  been  the  most  quiet  people  in  the  boat  while  awake, 
and  became  peacebreakers  only  when  others  cease  to 
be  so,  breathing  tumult  out  of  their  repose.  Would  it 
were  possible  to  affix  a  wind  instrument  to  the  nose, 
and  thus  make  melody  of  a  snore,  so  that  a  sleeping 
lover  might  serenade  his  mistress  or  a  congregation 
snore  a  psalm  tune  !  Other,  though  fainter,  sounds 
than  these  contributed  to  my  restlessness.  My  head 
was  close  to  the  crimson  curtain,  —  the  sexual  division 
of  the  boat,  —  behind  which  I  continually  heard  whis 
pers  and  stealthy  footsteps  ;  the  noise  of  a  comb  laid  on 
the  table  or  a  slipper  dropped  on  the  floor  ;  the  twang, 
like  a  broken  harpstring,  caused  by  loosening  a  tight 
belt ;  the  rustling  of  a  gown  in  its  descent ;  and  the 
unlacing  of  a  pair  of  stays.  My  ear  seemed  to  have 
the  properties  of  an  eye  ;  a  visible  image  pestered  my 
fancy  in  the  darkness  ;  the  curtain  was  withdrawn  be 
tween  me  and  the  western  lady,  who  yet  disrobed  her 
self  without  a  blush. 

Finally  all  was  hushed  in  that  quarter.  Still  I  was 
more  broad  awake  than  through  the  whole  preceding 
day,  and  felt  a  feverish  impulse  to  toss  my  limbs  miles 
apart  and  appease  the  unquietness  of  mind  by  that 
of  matter.  Forgetting  that  my  berth  was  hardly  so 
wide  as  a  coffin,  I  turned  suddenly  over,  and  fell  like 
an  avalanche  on  the  floor,  to  the  disturbance  of  the 
whole  community  of  sleepers.  As  there  were  no  bones 
broken,  I  blessed  the  accident  and  went  on  deck.  A 
lantern  was  burning  at  each  end  of  the  boat,  and  one 
of  the  crew  was  stationed  at  the  bows,  keeping  watch 
.as  mariners  do  on  the  ocean.  Though  the  rain  had 
ceased,  the  sky  was  all  one  cloud,  and  the  darkness  so 
intense  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  world  except  the 


*92          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

little  space  on  which  our  lantern  glimmered.     Yet  it 
was  an  impressive  scene. 

We  were  traversing  the  "long  level,"  a  dead  flat 
between  Utica  and  Syracuse,  where  the  canal  has  not 
rise  or  fall  enough  to  require  a  lock  for  nearly  seventy 
miles.  There  can  hardly  be  a  more  dismal  tract  of 
country.  The  forest  which  covers  it  consisting  chiefly 
of  white  cedar,  black  ash,  and  other  trees  that  live  in 
excessive  moisture,  is  now  decayed  and  death-struck  by 
the  partial  draining  of  the  swamp  into  the  great  ditch 
of  the  canal.  Sometimes,  indeed,  our  lights  were  re 
flected  from  pools  of  stagnant  water  which  stretched 
far  in  among  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  beneath  dense 
masses  of  dark  foliage.  But  generally  the  tall  stems 
and  intermingled  branches  were  naked,  and  brought 
into  strong  relief  amid  the  surrounding  gloom  by  the 
whiteness  of  their  decay.  Often  we  beheld  the  pros 
trate  form  of  some  old  sylvan  giant  which  had  fallen 
and  crushed  down  smaller  trees  under  its  immense 
ruin.  In  spots  where  destruction  had  been  riotous, 
the  lanterns  showed  perhaps  a  hundred  trunks,  erect, 
half  overthrown,  extended  along  the  ground,  resting 
on  their  shattered  limbs  or  tossing  them  desperate]^ 
into  the  darkness,  but  all  of  one  ashy  white,  all  naked 
together,  in  desolate  confusion.  Thus  growing  out  of 
the  night  as  we  drew  nigh,  and  vanishing  as  we  glided 
on,  based  on  obscurity,  and  overhung  and  bounded  by 
it,  the  scene  was  ghostlike  —  the  very  land  of  unsub 
stantial  things,  whither  dreams  might  betake  them 
selves  when  they  quit  the  slumberer's  brain. 

My  fancy  found  another  emblem.  The  wild  nature 
of  America  had  been  driven  to  this  desert-place  by 
the  encroachments  of  civilized  man.  And  even  here, 
where  the  savage  queen  was  throned  on  the  ruins  of 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY.  493 

her  empire,  did  we  penetrate,  a  vulgar  and  worldly 
throng,  intruding  on  her  latest  solitude.  In  other 
lands  decay  sits  among  fallen  palaces ;  but  here  her 
home  is  in  the  forests. 

Looking  ahead,  I  discerned  a  distant  light,  announc 
ing  the  approach  of  another  boat,  which  soon  passed 
us,  and  proved  to  be  a  rusty  old  scow  —  just  such  a 
craft  as  the  "  Flying  Dutchman"  would  navigate  on 
the  canal.  Perhaps  it  was  that  celebrated  personage 
himself  whom  I  imperfectly  distinguished  at  the  helm, 
in  a  glazed  cap  and  rough  greatcoat,  with  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  leaving  the  fumes  of  tobacco  a  hundred 
yards  behind.  Shortly  after  our  boatman  blew  a  horn, 
sending  a  long  and  melancholy  note  through  the  for 
est  avenue,  as  a  signal  for  some  watcher  in  the  wilder 
ness  to  be  ready  with  a  change  of  horses.  We  had 
proceeded  a  mile  or  two  with  our  fresh  team  when  the 
tow  rope  got  entangled  in  a  fallen  branch  on  the  edge 
of  the  canal  and  caused  a  momentary  delay,  during 
which  I  went  to  examine  the  phosphoric  light  of  an/ 
old  tree  a  little  within  the  forest.  It  was  not  the  first/ 
delusive  radiance  that  I  had  followed. 

The  tree  lay  along  the  ground,  and  was  wholly  con 
verted  into  a  mass  of  diseased  splendor,  which  threw  a 
ghastliness  around.  Being  full  of  conceits  that  night, 
I  called  it  a  frigid  fire,  a  funeral  light,  illumining  de 
cay  and  death,  an  emblem  of  fame  that  gleams  around 
the  dead  man  without  warming  him,  or  of  genius  when 
it  owes  its  brilliancy  to  moral  rottenness,  and  was 
thinking  that  such  ghostlike  torches  were  just  fit  to 
light  up  this  dead  forest  or  to  blaze  coldly  in  tombs, 
when,  starting  from  my  abstraction,  I  looked  up  the 
canal.  I  recollected  myself,  and  discovered  the  lan 
terns  glimmering  far  away. 


494          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Boat  ahoy  !  "  shouted  I,  making  a  trumpet  of  my 
closed  fists. 

Though  the  cry  must  have  rung  for  miles  along  that 
hollow  passage  of  the  woods,  it  produced  no  effect. 
These  packet  boats  make  up  for  their  snail-like  pace 
by  never  loitering  day  nor  night,  especially  for  those 
who  have  paid  their  fare.  Indeed,  the  captain  had  an 
interest  in  getting  rid  of  me,  for  I  was  his  creditor 
for  a  breakfast. 

"  They  are  gone,  Heaven  be  praised !  "  ejaculated  1 3 
"  for  I  cannot  possibly  overtake  them.  Here  am  I, 
on  the  '  long  level,'  at  midnight,  with  the  comfortable 
prospect  of  a  walk  to  Syracuse,  where  my  baggage  will 
be  left.  And  now  to  find  a  house  or  shed  wherein  to 
pass  the  night."  So  thinking  aloud,  I  took  a  flambeau 
from  the  old  tree,  burning,  but  consuming  not,  to  light 
my  steps  withal,  and,  like  a  jack-o'-the-lantern,  set  out 
on  my  midnight  tour. 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER. 

THE  lover  of  the  moral  picturesque  may  sometimes 
find  what  he  seeks  in  a  character  which  is  neverthe 
less  of  too  negative  a  description  to  be  seized  upon 
and  represented  to  *the  imaginative  vision  by  word 
painting.  As  an  instance,  I  remember  an  old  man 
who  carries  on  a  little  trade  of  gingerbread  and  ap 
ples  at  the  depot  of  one  of  our  railroads.  While 
awaiting  the  departure  of  the  cars,  my  observation, 
flitting  to  and  fro  among  the  livelier  characteristics 
of  the  scene,  has  often  settled  insensibly  upon  this 
almost  hueless  object.  Thus,  unconsciously  to  myself 
and  unsuspected  by  him,  I  have  studied  the  old  apple 
dealer  until  he  has  become  a  naturalized  citizen  of  my 
inner  world.  How  little  would  he  imagine  —  poor, 
neglected,  friendless,  unappreciated,  and  with  little 
that  demands  appreciation  —  that  the  mental  eye  of 
an  utter  stranger  has  so  often  reverted  to  his  figure ! 
Many  a  noble  form,  many  a  beautiful  face,  has  flitted 
before  me  and  vanished  like  a  shadow.  It  is  a  strange 
witchcraft  whereby  this  faded  and  featureless  old  ap 
ple  dealer  has  gained  a  settlement  in  my  memory. 

He  is  a  small  man,  with  gray  hair  and  gray  stubble 
beard,  and  is  invariably  clad  in  a  shabby  surtout  of 
snuff  color,  closely  buttoned,  and  half  concealing  a 
pair  of  gray  pantaloons;  the  whole  dress,  though 
clean  and  entire,  being  evidently  flimsy  with  much 
wear.  His  face,  thin,  withered,  furrowed,  and  with 
features  which  even  age  has  failed  to  render  impres- 


496          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Bive,  has  a  frost-bitten  aspect.  It  is  a  moral  frost 
which  no  physical  warmth  or  comfortableness  could 
counteract.  The  summer  sunshine  may  fling  its  white 
heat  upon  him,  or  the  good  fire  of  the  depot  room  may 
make  him  the  focus  of  its  blaze  on  a  winter's  day ;  but 
all  in  vain ;  for  still  the  old  man  looks  as  if  he  were  in 
a  frosty  atmosphere,  with  scarcely  warmth  enough  to 
keep  life  in  the  region  about  his  heart.  It  is  a  pa 
tient,  long-suffering,  quiet,  hopeless,  shivering  aspect. 
He  is  not  desperate,  —  that,  though  its  etymology  im 
plies  no  more,  would  be  too  positive  an  expression,  — 
but  merely  devoid  of  hope.  As  all  his  past  life,  prob 
ably,  offers  no  spots  of  brightness  to  his  memory,  so 
he  takes  his  present  poverty  and  discomfort  as  en 
tirely  a  matter  of  course  :  he  thinks  it  the  definition 
of  existence,  so  far  as  himself  is  concerned,  to  be  poor, 
cold,  and  uncomfortable.  It  may  be  added,  that  tune 
has  not  thrown  dignity  as  a  mantle  over  the  old  man's 
figure :  there  is  nothing  venerable  about  him :  you  pity 
him  without  a  scruple. 

He  sits  on  a  bench  in  the  depot  room ;  and  before 
him,  on  the  floor,  are  deposited  two  baskets  of  a  capac 
ity  to  contain  his  whole  stock  in  trade.  Across  from 
one  basket  to  the  other  extends  a  board,  on  which  is 
displayed  a  plate  of  cakes  and  gingerbread,  some  rus 
set  and  red -cheeked  apples,  and  a  box  containing 
variegated  sticks  of  candy,  together  with  that  delec 
table  condiment  known  by  children  as  Gibraltar  rock, 
neatly  done  up  in  white  paper.  There  is  likewise  a 
half -peck  measure  of  cracked  walnuts  and  two  or 
three  tin  half  pints  or  gills  filled  with  the  nut  kernels, 
ready  for  purchasers.  Such  are  the  small  commodi 
ties  with  which  our  old  friend  comes  daily  before  the 
world,  ministering  to  its  petty  needs  and  little  freaks 


THE   OLD  APPLE  DEALER.  497 

of  appetite,  and  seeking  thence  the  solid  subsistence 
—  -  so  far  as  he  may  subsist  —  of  his  life. 

A  slight  observer  would  speak  of  the  old  man's  qui 
etude  ;  but,  on  closer  scrutiny,  you  discover  that  there 
is  a  continual  unrest  within  him,  which  somewhat  re 
sembles  the  fluttering  action  of  the  nerves  in  a  corpse 
from  which  life  has  recently  departed.  Though  he 
never  exhibits  any  violent  action,  and,  indeed,  might 
appear  to  be  sitting  quite  still,  yet  you  perceive,  when 
his  minuter  peculiarities  begin  to  be  detected,  that  he 
)g  always  making  some  little  movement  or  other.  He 
looks  anxiously  at  his  plate  of  cakes  or  pyramid  of 
apples  and  slightly  alters  their  arrangement,  with  an 
evident  idea  that  a  great  deal  depends  on  their  being 
disposed  exactly  thus  and  so.  Then  for  a  moment  he 
gazes  out  of  the  window  ;  then  he  shivers  quietly  and 
folds  his  arms  across  his  breast,  as  if  to  draw  himself 
closer  within  himself,  and  thus  keep  a  flicker  of  warmth 
in  his  lonesome  heart.  Now  he  turns  again  to  his  mer 
chandise  of  cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  and  discovers 
that  this  cake  or  that  apple,  or  yonder  stick  of  red 
and  white  candy,  has  somehow  got  out  of  its  proper 
position.  And  is  there  not  a  walnut  kernel  too  many 
or  too  few  in  one  of  those  small  tin  measures  ?  Again 
the  whole  arrangement  appears  to  be  settled  to  his 
mind ;  but,  in  the  course  of  a  minute  or  two,  there 
will  assuredly  be  something  to  set  right.  At  times, 
by  an  indescribable  shadow  upon  his  features,  too 
quiet,  however,  to  be  noticed  until  you  are  familiar 
with  his  ordinary  aspect,  the  expression  of  frost-bitten, 
patient  despondency  becomes  very  touching.  It  seems 
as  if  just  at  that  instant  the  suspicion  occurred  to  him  ] 
that,  in  his  chill  decline  of  life,  earning  scanty  bread  » 

VOL.   It  32 


198          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

by  selling  cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  he  is  a  very  miser 
able  old  fellow. 

But,  if  he  think  so,  it  is  a  mistake.  He  can  never 
suffer  the  extreme  of  misery,  because  the  tone  of  his 
whole  being  is  too  much  subdued  for  him  to  feel  any 
thing  acutely. 

Occasionally  one  of  the  passengers,  to  while  away  a 
tedious  interval,  approaches  the  old  man,  inspects  the 
articles  upon  his  board,  and  even  peeps  curiously  into 
the  two  baskets.  Another,  striding  to  and  fro  along 
the  room,  throws  a  look  at  the  apples  and  gingerbread 
at  every  turn.  A  third,  it  may  be  of  a  more  sensitive 
and  delicate  texture  of  being,  glances  shyly  thither 
ward,  cautious  not  to  excite  expectations  of  a  pur 
chaser  while  yet  undetermined  whether  to  buy.  But 
there  appears  to  be  no  need  of  such  a  scrupulous  re 
gard  to  our  old  friend's  feelings.  True,  he  is  con 
scious  of  the  remote  possibility  to  sell  a  cake  or  an 
apple ;  but  innumerable  disappointments  have  ren 
dered  him  so  far  a  philosopher,  that,  even  if  the  pur 
chased  article  should  be  returned,  he  will  consider  it 
altogether  in  the  ordinary  train  of  events.  He  speaks 
to  none,  and  makes  no  sign  of  offering  his  wares  to  the 
public :  not  that  he  is  deterred  by  pride,  but  by  the 
certain  conviction  that  such  demonstrations  would  not 
increase  his  custom.  Besides,  this  activity  in  business 
would  require  an  energy  that  never  could  have  been 
a  characteristic  of  his  almost  passive  disposition  even 
in  youth.  Whenever  an  actual  customer  appears  the 
old  man  looks  up  with  a  patient  eye  :  if  the  price  and 
the  article  are  approved,  he  is  ready  to  make  change ; 
otherwise  his  eyelids  droop  again  sadly  enough,  but 
with  no  heavier  despondency  than  before.  He  shivers, 
perhaps  folds  his  lean  arms  around  his  lean  body,  and 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER.       499 

resumes  the  lifelong,  frozen  patience  in  which  consists 
his  strength.  Once  in  a  while  a  school -boy  comes 
hastily  up,  places  a  cent  or  two  upon  the  board,  and 
takes  up  a  cake,  or  stick  of  candy,  or  a  measure  of 
walnuts,  or  an  apple  as  red  cheeked  as  himself.  There 
are  no  words  as  to  price,  that  being  as  well  known  to 
the  buyer  as  to  the  seller.  The  old  apple  dealer  never 
peaks  an  unnecessary  word :  not  that  he  is  sullen  and 
morose ;  but  there  is  none  of  the  cheeriness  and  brisk 
ness  in  him  that  stirs  up  people  to  talk. 

Not  seldom  he  is  greeted  by  some  old  neighbor,  a 
man  well  to  do  in  the  world,  who  makes  a  civil,  pat 
ronizing  observation  about  the  weather ;  and  then,  by 
way  of  performing  a  charitable  deed,  begins  to  chaffer 
for  an  apple.  Our  friend  presumes  not  on  any  past 
acquaintance ;  he  makes  the  briefest  possible  response 
to  all  general  remarks,  and  shrinks  quietly  into  him 
self  again.  After  every  diminution  of  his  stock  hfe 
takes  care  to  produce  from  the  basket  another  cake> 
another  stick  of  candy,  another  apple,  or  another  meas 
ure  of  walnuts,  to  supply  the  place  of  the  article  sold. 
Two  or  three  attempts  —  or,  perchance,  half  a  dozen 
—  are  requisite  before  the  board  can  be  rearranged 
to  his  satisfaction.  If  he  have  received  a  silver  coin, 
he  waits  till  the  purchaser  is  out  of  sight,  then  he  ex 
amines  it  closely,  and  tries  to  bend  it  with  his  finger 
and  thumb :  finally  he  puts  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket 
with  seemingly  a  gentle  sigh.  This  sigh,  so  faint  as 
to  be  hardly  perceptible,  and  not  expressive  of  any 
definite  emotion,  is  the  accompaniment  and  conclusion 
of  all  his  actions.  It  is  the  symbol  of  the  chillness 
and  torpid  melancholy  of  his  old  age,  which  only  make 
themselves  felt  sensibly  when  his  repose  is  slightly 
ilisturbed. 


SCO          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Our  man  of  gingerbread  and  apples  is  not  a  speci 
men  of  the  "  needy  man  who  has  seen  better  days." 
Doubtless  there  have  been  better  and  brighter  days  in 
the  far-off  time  of  his  youth ;  but  none  with  so  much 
sunshine  of  prosperity  in  them  that  the  chill,  the  de 
pression,  the  narrowness  of  means,  in  his  declining 
years,  can  have  come  upon  him  by  surprise.  His  life 
has  all  been  of  a  piece.  His  subdued  and  nerveless 
boyhood  prefigured  his  abortive  prime,  which  likewise 
contained  within  itself  the  prophecy  and  image  of  his 
lean  and  torpid  age.  He  was  perhaps  a  mechanic,  who 
nevej?  came  to  be  a  master  in  his  craft,  or  a  petty 
tradesman,  rubbing  onward  between  passably  to  do 
and  poverty.  Possibly  he  may  look  back  to  some 
brilliant  epoch  of  his  career  when  there  were  a  hun 
dred  or  two  of  dollars  to  his  credit  in  the  Savings 
Bank.  Such  must  have  been  the  extent  of  his  better 
fortune  —  his  little  measure  of  this  world's  triumphs 
—  all  that  he  has  known  of  success.  A  meek,  down 
cast,  humble,  uncomplaining  creature,  he  probably  has 
never  felt  himself  entitled  to  more  than  so  much  of 
the  gifts  of  Providence.  Is  it  not  still  something  that 
he  has  never  held  out  his  hand  for  charity,  nor  has  yet 
been  driven  to  that  sad  home  and  household  of  Earth's 
forlorn  and  broken-spirited  children,  the  almshouse? 
He  cherishes  no  quarrel,  therefore,  with  his  destiny, 
nor  with  the  Author  of  it.  All  is  as  it  should  be. 

If,  indeed,  he  have  been  bereaved  of  a  son,  a  bold, 
energetic,  vigorous  young  man,  on  whom  the  father's 
feeble  nature  leaned  as  on  a  staff  of  strength,  in  that 
case  he  may  have  felt  a  bitterness  that  could  not  oth 
erwise  have  been  generated  in  his  heart.  But  me* 
thinks  the  joy  of  possessing  such  a  son  and  the  agony 
'  of  losing  him  would  have  developed  the  old  man's 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER.      501 

moral  and  intellectual  nature  to  a  much  greater  de 
gree  than  we  now  find  it.  Intense  grief  appears  to 
be  as  much  out  of  keeping  with  his  life  as  fervid  hap 
piness. 

To  confess  the  truth,  it  is  not  the  easiest  matter  in 
the  world  to  define  and  individualize  a  character  like 
this  which  we  are  now  handling.  The  portrait  must 
be  so  generally  negative  that  the  most  delicate  pencil 
is  likely  to  spoil  it  by  introducing  some  too  positive 
tint.  Every  touch  must  be  kept  down,  or  else  you 
destroy  the  subdued  tone  which  is  absolutely  essential 
to  the  whole  effect.  Perhaps  more  may  be  done  by 
contrast  than  by  direct  description.  For  this  purpose 
I  make  use  of  another  cake  and  candy  merchant,  who 
likewise  infests  the  railroad  depot.  This  latter  wor 
thy  is  a  very  smart  and  well-dressed  boy  of  ten  years 
old  or  thereabouts,  who  skips  briskly  hither  and  thith 
er,  addressing  the  passengers  in  a  pert  voice,  yet  with 
somewhat  of  good  breeding  in  his  tone  and  pronun 
ciation.  Now  he  has  caught  my  eye,  and  skips  across 
the  room  with  a  pretty  pertness  which  I  should  like  to 
correct  with  a  box  on  the  ear.  "  Any  cake,  sir  ?  any 
candy  ?  " 

No,  none  for  me,  my  lad.  I  did  but  glance  at  your 
brisk  figure  in  order  to  catch  a  reflected  light  and 
throw  it  upon  your  old  rival  yonder. 

Again,  in  order  to  invest  my  conception  of  the  old 
man  with  a  more  decided  sense  of  reality,  I  look  at 
him  in  the  very  moment  of  intensest  bustle,  on  the 
arrival  of  the  cars.  The  shriek  of  the  engine  as  it 
rushes  into  the  car-house  is  the  utterance  of  the  steam 
fiend,  whom  man  has  subdued  by  magic  spells  and 
compels  to  serve  as  a  beast  of  burden.  He  has 
Bkimmed  rivers  in  his  headlong  rush,  dashed  through 


502          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

forests,  plunged  into  the  hearts  of  mountains,  and 
glanced  from  the  city  to  the  desert-place,  and  again 
to  a  far-off  city,  with  a  meteoric  progress,  seen  and 
out  of  sight,  while  his  reverberating  roar  still  fills 
the  ear.  The  travellers  swarm  forth  from  the  cars. 
All  are  full  of  the  momentum  which  they  have  caught 
from  their  mode  of  conveyance.  It  seems  as  if  the 
whole  world,  both  morally  and  physically,  were  de 
tached  from  its  old  standfasts  and  set  in  rapid  motion. 
And,  in  the  midst  of  this  terrible  activity,  there  sits 
the  old  man  of  gingerbread ;  so  subdued,  so  hopeless, 
so  without  a  stake  in  life,  and  yet  not  positively  miser 
able," — there  he  sits,  the  forlorn  old  creature,  one  chill 
and  sombre  day  after  another,  gathering  scanty  cop 
pers  for  his  cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  —  there  sits  the 
old  apple  dealer,  in  his  threadbare  suit  of  snuff  color 
and  gray  and  his  grizzly  stubble  beard.  See !  he  folds 
his  lean  arms  around  his  lean  figure  with  that  quiet 
sigh  and  that  scarcely  perceptible  shiver  which  are 
the  tokens  of  his  inward  state.  I  have  him  now.  He 
and  the  steam  fiend  are  each  other's  antipodes ;  the 
latter  's  the  type  of  all  that  go  ahead,  and  the  old  man 
the  representative  of  that  melancholy  class  who,  by 
some  sad  witchcraft,  are  doomed  never  to  share  in  the 
world's  exulting  progress.  Thus  the  contrast  between 
mankind  and  this  desolate  brother  becomes  picturesque, 
and  even  sublime. 

And  now  farewell,  old  friend !  Little  do  you  sus 
pect  that  a  student  of  human  life  has  made  your  char 
acter  the  theme  of  more  than  one  solitary  and  thought 
ful  hour.  Many  would  say  that  you  have  hardly  in 
dividuality  enough  to  be  the  object  of  your  own  self- 
love.  How,  then,  can  a  stranger's  eye  detect  anything 
in  your  mind  and  heart  to  study  and  to  wonder  at? 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER.       503 

5Tet,  coiild  I  read  but  a  tithe  of  what  is  written  there,  "W 
it  would  be  a  volume  of  deeper  and  more  compre 
hensive  import  than  all  that  the  wisest  mortals  have 
given  to  the  world ;  for  the  soundless  depths  of  the 
human  soul  and  of  eternity  have  an  opening  through 
your  breast.  God  be  praised,  were  it  only  for  your 
sake,  that  the  present  shapes  of  human  existence  are 
not  cast  in  iron  nor  hewn  in  everlasting  adamant,  but 
moulded  of  the  vapors  that  vanish  away  while  the  es 
sence  flits  upward  to  the  Infinite.  There  is  a  spiritual 
essence  in  this  gray  and  lean  old  shape  that  shall  flit 
upward  too.  Yes ;  doubtless  there  is  a  region  where 
the  lifelong  shiver  will  pass  away  from  his  being,  and 
that  quiet  sigh,  which  it  has  taken  him  so  many  years 
to  breathe,  will  be  brought  to  a  close  for  good  and  all 


THE  AETIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

elderly  man,  with  his  pretty  daughter  on  his 
arm,  was  passing  along  the  street,  and  emerged  from 
the  gloom  of  the  cloudy  evening  into  the  light  that 
fell  across  the  pavement  from  the  window  of  a  small 
shap.  It  was  a  projecting  window  ;  and  on  the  inside 
were  suspended  a  variety  of  watches,  pinchbeck,  silver, 
and  one  or  two  of  gold,  all  with  their  faces  turned 
from  the  streets,  as  if  churlishly  disinclined  to  inform 
the  wayfarers  what  o'clock  it  was.  Seated  within  the 
shop,  sidelong  to  the  window,  with  his  pale  face  bent 
earnestly  over  some  delicate  piece  of  mechanism  on 
which  was  thrown  the  concentrated  lustre  of  a  shade 
lamp,  appeared  a  young  man. 

"  What  can  Owen  Warland  be  about  ?  "  muttered 
old  Peter  Hovenden,  himself  a  retired  watchmaker, 
and  the  former  master  of  this  same  young  man  whose 
occupation  he  was  now  wondering  at.  "What  can 
the  fellow  be  about?  These  six  months  past  I  have 
never  come  by  his  shop  without  seeing  him  just  as 
steadily  at  work  as  now.  It  would  be  a  flight  beyond 
his  usual  foolery  to  seek  for  the  perpetual  motion ; 
and  yet  I  know  enough  of  my  old  business  to  be  cer 
tain  that  what  he  is  now  so  busy  with  is  no  part  of  the 
machinery  of  a  watch." 

"Perhaps,  father,"  said  Annie,  without  showing 
much  interest  in  the  question,  "  Owen  is  inventing  a 
new  kind  of  timekeeper.  I  am  sure  he  has  ingenuity 

-ough." 


THE  ARTIST   OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.        505 

"  Poh,  child !  He  has  not  the  sort  of  ingenuity  to 
invent  anything  better  than  a  Dutch  toy,"  answered 
her  father,  who  had  formerly  been  put  to  much  vex 
ation  by  Owen  Warland's  irregular  genius.  "  A 
plague  on  such  ingenuity !  All  the  effect  that  ever  I 
knew  of  it  was  to  spoil  the  accuracy  of  some  of  the 
best  watches  in  my  shop.  He  would  turn  the  sun  out 
of  its  orbit  and  derange  the  whole  course  of  time,  if, 
as  I  said  before,  his  ingenuity  could  grasp  anything 
bigger  than  a  child's  toy  !  " 

"  Hush,  father !  He  hears  you !  "  whispered  Annie, 
pressing  the  old  man's  arm.  "  His  ears  are  as  delicate 
as  his  feelings ;  and  you  know  how  easily  disturbed 
they  are.  Do  let  us  move  on." 

So  Peter  Hovenden  and  his  daughter  Annie  plodded 
on  without  further  conversation,  until  in  a  by-street  of 
the  town  they  found  themselves  passing  the  open  door 
of  a  blacksmith's  shop.  Within  was  seen  the  forge, 
now  blazing  up  and  illuminating  the  high  and  dusky 
roof,  and  now  confining  its  lustre  to  a  narrow  precinct 
of  the  coal-strewn  floor,  according  as  the  breath  of  the 
bellows  was  puffed  forth  or  again  inhaled  into  its  vast 
leathern  lungs.  In  the  intervals  of  brightness  it  was 
easy  to  distinguish  objects  in  remote  corners  of  the 
shop  and  the  horseshoes  that  hung  upon  the  wall ;  in 
the  momentary  gloom  the  fire  seemed  to  be  glimmer 
ing  amidst  the  vagueness  of  unenclosed  space.  Mov 
ing  about  in  this  red  glare  and  alternate  dusk  was  the 
figure  of  the  blacksmith,  well  worthy  to  be  viewed  in 
so  picturesque  an  aspect  of  light  and  shade,  where  the 
bright  blaze  struggled  with  the  black  night,  as  if  each 
would  have  snatched  his  comely  strength  from  the 
other.  Anon  he  drew  a  white-hot  bar  of  iron  from 
the  coals,  laid  it  on  the  anvil,  uplifted  his  arm 


506          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

might,  and  was  soon  enveloped  in  the  myriads  of 
sparks  which  the  strokes  of  his  hammer  scattered  into 
the  surrounding  gloom. 

"  Now,  that  is  a  pleasant  sight,"  said  the  old  watch 
maker.  "I  know  what  it  is  to  work  in  gold;  but 
give  me  the  worker  in  iron  after  all  is  said  and  done. 
He  spends  his  labor  upon  a  reality.  What  say  you, 
daughter  Annie  ?  " 

"Pray  don't  speak  so  loud,  father,"  whispered 
Annie,  "  Robert  Danf orth  will  hear  you." 

"  And  what  if  he  should  hear  me  ?  "  said  Peter  Ho- 
venden.  "  I  say  again,  it  is  a  good  and  a  wholesome 
thing  to  depend  upon  main  strength  and  reality,  and 
to  earns  one's  bread  with  the  bare  and  brawny  arm  of 
a  blacksmith.  A  watchmaker  gets  his  brain  puzzled 
by  his  wheels  within  a  wheel,  or  loses  his  health  or  the 
nicety  of  his  eyesight,  as  was  my  case,  and  finds  him 
self  at  middle  age,  or  a  little  after,  past  labor  at  his 
own  trade  and  fit  for  nothing  else,  yet  too  poor  to  live 
at  his  ease.  So  I  say  once  again,  give  me  main 
•strength  for  my  money.  And  then,  how  it  takes  the 
nonsense  out  of  a  man !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  black 
smith  being  such  a  fool  as  Owen  Warland  yonder  ?  " 

"  Well  said,  uncle  Hovenden !  "  shouted  Robert 
Danforth  from  the  forge,  in  a  full,  deep,  merry  voice, 
that  made  the  roof  reecho.  "And  what  says  Miss 
Annie  to  that  doctrine  ?  She,  I  suppose,  will  think 
it  a  genteeler  business  to  tinker  up  a  lady's  watch  than 
to  forge  a  horseshoe  or  make  a  gridiron." 

Annie  drew  her  father  onward  without  giving  him 
time  for  reply. 

But  we  must  return  to  Owen  Warland's  shop,  and 
spend  more  meditation  upon  his  history  and  character 
than  either  Peter  Hovenden,  or  probably  his  daughter 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       507 

Annie,  or  Owen's  old  school-fellow,  Robert  Danforth, 
would  have  thought  due  to  so  slight  a  subject.  From 
the  time  that  his  little  fingers  could  grasp  a  penknife, 
Owen  had  been  remarkable  for  a  delicate  ingenuity, 
which  sometimes  produced  pretty  shapes  in  wood,  prin 
cipally  figures  of  flowers  and  birds,  and  sometimes 
seemed  to  aim  at  the  hidden  mysteries  of  mechanism. 
But  it  was  always  for  purposes  of  grace,  and  never 
with  any  mockery  of  the  useful.  He  did  not,  like  the 
crowd  of  school-boy  artisans,  construct  little  windmills 
on  the  angle  of  a  barn  or  watermills  across  the  neigh 
boring  brook.  Those  who  discovered  such  peculiarity 
in  the  boy  as  to  think  it  worth  their  while  to  observe 
him  closely,  sometimes  saw  reason  to  suppose  that  he 
was  attempting  to  imitate  the  beautiful  movements  of 
Nature  as  exemplified  in  the  flight  of  birds  or  the  ac 
tivity  of  little  animals.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  a  new  de 
velopment  of  the  Iqve  of  the  beautiful,  such  as  might 
have  made  him  a  poet,  a  painter,  or  a  sculptor,  and 
which  was  as  completely  refined  from  all  utilitarian 
coarseness  as  it  could  have  been  in  either  of  the  fine 
arts.  He  looked  with  singular  distaste  at  the  stiff  and 
regular  processes  of  ordinary  machinery. .  Being  once 
carried  to  see  a  steam-engine,  in  the  expectation  that 
his  intuitive  comprehension  of  mechanical  principles 
would  be  gratified,  he  turned  pale  and  grew  sick,  as  if 
something  monstrous  and  unnatural  had  been  presented 
to  him.  This  horror  was  partly  owing  to  the  size  and 
terrible  energy  of  the  iron  laborer,;  for  the  character 
of  Owen's  mind  was  microscopic,  and  tended  naturally 
to  the  minute,  in  accordance  with  his  diminutive  frame 
and  the  marvellous  smallness  and  delicate  power  of  his 
fingers.  Not  that  his  sense  of  beauty  was  thereby  di 
minished  into  a  sense  of  prettiness.  The  beautiful  idea 


508  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

(  has  no  relation  to  size,  and  may  be  as  perfectly  devel 
I  oped  in  a  space  too  minute  for  any  but  microscopic  in- 
vestigation  as  within  the  ample  verge  that  is  measured 
by  the  arc  of  the  rainbow.  But,  at  all  events,  this  char 
acteristic  minuteness  in  his  objects  and  accomplish 
ments  made  the  world  even  more  incapable  than  it 
might  otherwise  have  been  of  appreciating  Owen  War- 
land's  genius.  The  boy's  relatives  saw  nothing  better 
to  be  done  —  as  perhaps  there  was  not  —  than  to  bind 
him  apprentice  to  a  watchmaker,  hoping  that  his 
strange  ingenuity  might  thus  be  regulated  and  put  to 
utilitarian  purposes. 

Peter  Hovenden's  opinion  of  his  apprentice  has  al 
ready  been  expressed.  He  could  make  nothing  of  the 
lad.  Owen's  apprehension  of  the  professional  myste 
ries,  it  is  true,  was  inconceivably  quick ;  but  he  alto 
gether  forgot  or  despised  the  grand  object  of  a  watch 
maker's  business,  and  cared  no  more  for  the  measure 
ment  of  time  than  if  it  had  been  merged  into  eternity. 
So  long,  however,  as  he  remained  under  his  old  mas 
ter's  care,  Owen's  lack  of  sturdiness  made  it  possible, 
by  strict  injunctions  and  sharp  oversight,  to  restrain 
his  creative  eccentricity  within  bounds  ;  but  when  his 
apprenticeship  was  served  out,  and  he  had  taken  the 
little  shop  which  Peter  Hovenden's  failing  eyesight 
compelled  him  to  relinquish,  then  did  people  recognize 
how  unfit  a  person  was  Owen  Warland  to  lead  old 
blind  Father  Time  along  his  daily  course.  One  of  his 
most  rational  projects  was  to  connect  a  musical  opera 
tion  with  the  machinery  of  his  watches,  so  that  all  the 
harsh  dissonances  of  life  might  be  rendered  tuneful, 
and  each  flitting  moment  fall  into  the  abyss  of  the  past 
in  golden  drops  of  harmony.  If  a  family  clock  was  in 
trusted  to  him  for  repair,  —  one  of  those  tall,  ancient 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.       509 

clocks  that  have  grown  nearly  allied  to  human  nature 
by  measuring  out  the  lifetime  of  many  generations,  — 
he  would  take  upon  himself  to  arrange  a  dance  or 
funeral  procession  of  figures  across  its  venerable  face5 
representing  twelve  mirthful  or  melancholy  hours. 
Several  freaks  of  this  kind  quite  destroyed  the  young  \ 
watchmaker's  credit  with  that  steady  and  matter  -  of  -  / 
fact  class  of  people  who  hold  the  opinion  that  time  is 
not  to  be  trifled  with,  whether  considered  as  the  me-! 
dium  of  advancement  and  prosperity  in  this  world  or 
preparation  for  the  next.  His  custom  rapidly  dimin 
ished  —  a  misfortune,  however,  that  was  probably  reck-_i 
oned  among  his  better  accidents  by  Owen  Warland, 
who  was  becoming  more  and  more  absorbed  in  a  secret 
occupation  which  drew  all  his  science  and  manual  dex 
terity  into  itself,  and  likewise  gave  full  employment 
to  the  characteristic  tendencies  of  his  genius.  This 
pursuit  had  already  consumed  many  months. 

After  the  old  watchmaker  and  his  pretty  daughter 
had  gazed  at  him  out  of  the  obscurity  of  the  street, 
Owen  Warland  was  seized  with  a  fluttering  of  the 
nerves,  which  made  his  hand  tremble  too  violently  to 
proceed  with  such  delicate  labor  as  he  was  now  en 
gaged  upon. 

"  It  was  Annie  herself  !  "  murmured  he.  "  I  should 
have  known  it,  by  this  throbbing  of  my  heart,  before  I 
heard  her  father's  voice.  Ah,  how  it  throbs  !  I  shall 
scarcely  be  able  to  work  again  on  this  exquisite  mech 
anism  to-night.  Annie !  dearest  Annie  !  thou  shouldst 
give  firmness  to  my  heart  and  hand,  and  not  shake 
them  thus  ;  for  if  I  strive  to  put  the  very  spirit  of 
beauty  into  form  and  give  it  motion,  it  is  for  thy  sake 
alone.  O  throbbing  heart,  be  quiet !  If  my  labor  be 
thus  thwarted,  there  will  come  vague  and  unsatisfied 
dreams  which  will  leave  me  spiritless  to-morrow." 


510          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

As  he  was  endeavoring  to  settle  himself  again  to  his 
task,  the  shop  door  opened  and  gave  admittance  to  no 
other  than  the  stalwart  figure  which  Peter  Hovenden 
had  paused  to  admire,  as  seen  amid  the  light  and 
shadow  of  the  blacksmith's  shop.  Robert  Danforth 
had  brought  a  little  anvil  of  his  own  manufacture,  and 
peculiarly  constructed,  which  the  young  artist  had  re 
cently  bespoken.  Owen  examined  the  article  and  pro 
nounced  it  fashioned  according  to  his  wish. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Robert  Danforth,  his  strong  voice 
filling  the  shop  as  with  the  sound  of  a  bass  viol,  "  I 
consider  myself  equal  to  anything  in  the  way  of  my 
own  trade  ;  though  I  should  have  made  but  a  poor 
figure  at  yours  with  such  a  fist  as  this,"  added  he, 
laughing,  as  he  laid  his  vast  hand  beside  the  delicate 
one  of  Owen.  "  But  what  then  ?  I  put  more  main 
strength  into  one  blow  of  my  sledge  hammer  than  all 
that  you  have  expended  since  you  were  a  'prentice. 
Is  not  that  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Very  probably,"  answered  the  low  and  slender 
voice  of  Owen.  "  Strength  is  an  earthly  monster.  I 
make  no  pretensions  to  it.  My  force,  whatever  there 
may  be  of  it,  is  altogether  spiritual." 

"  Well,  but,  Owen,  what  are  you  about  ?  "  asked  his 
old  school-fellow,  still  in  such  a  hearty  volume  of  tone 
that  it  made  the  artist  shrink,  especially  as  the  ques 
tion  related  to  a  subject  so  sacred  as  the  absorbing 
dream  of  his  imagination.  "  Folks  do  say  that  you 
are  trying  to  discover  the  perpetual  motion." 

"  The  perpetual  motion?  Nonsense !  "  replied  Owen 
Warland,  with  a  movement  of  disgust ;  for  he  was  full 
of  little  petulances.  "  It  can  never  be  discovered.  It 
is  a  dream  that  may  delude  men  whose  brains  are 
mystified  with  matter,  but  not  me.  Besides,  if  such  a 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       511 

discovery  were  possible,  it  would  not  be  worth  my 
while  to  make  it  only  to  have  the  secret  turned  to 
such  purposes  as  are  now  effected  by  steam  and  water 
power.  I  ain  not  ambitious  to  be  honored  with  the 
paternity  of  a  new  kind  of  cotton  machine." 

"  That  would  be  droll  enough  ! "  cried  the  black 
smith,  breaking  out  into  such  an  uproar  of  laughter 
that  Owen  himself  and  the  bell  glasses  on  his  work- 
board  quivered  in  unison.  "  No,  no,  Owen !  No  child 
of  yours  will  have  iron  joints  and  sinews.  Well,  I 
won't  hinder  you  any  more.  Good  night,  Owen,  and 
success,  and  if  you  need  any  assistance,  so  far  as  a 
downright  blow  of  hammer  upon  anvil  will  answer  the 
purpose,  I  'm  your  man." 

And  with  another  laugh  the  man  of  main  strength 
Xeft  the  shop. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  whispered  Owen  Warland  to 
liimself,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  "  that  all  my 
musings,  my  purposes,  my  passion  for  the  beautiful, 
my  consciousness  of  power  to  create  it,  —  a  finer,  more 
ethereal  power,  of  which  this  earthly  giant  can  have 
no  conception,  —  all,  all,  look  so  vain  and  idle  when 
ever  my  path  is  crossed  by  Robert  Danforth !  He 
would  drive  me  mad  were  I  to  meet  him  often.  His 
hard,  brute  force  darkens  and  confuses  the  spiritual 
element  within  me ;  but  I,  too,  will  be  strong  in  my 
own  way.  I  will  not  yield  to  him." 

He  took  from  beneath  a  glass  a  piece  of  minute  ma 
chinery,  which  he  set  in  the  condensed  light  of  his 
lamp,  and,  looking  intently  at  it  through  a  magnifying 
glass,  proceeded  to  operate  with  a  delicate  instrument 
of  steel.  In  an  instant,  however,  he  fell  back  in  his 
chair  and  clasped  his  hands,  with  a  look  of  horror  on 
his  face  that  made  its  small  features  as  impressive  as 
those  of  a  giant  would  have  been. 


\ 


512          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"Heaven!  What  have  I  done?"  exclaimed  he. 
"The  vapor,  the  influence  of  that  brute  force,  —  it 
has  bewildered  me  and  obscured  my  perception.  I 
have  made  the  very  stroke  —  the  fatal  stroke  —  that  I 
have  dreaded  from  the  first.  It  is  all  over  — the  toil 
of  months,  the  object  of  my  life.  I  am  ruined !  " 

And  there  he  sat,  in  strange  despair,  until  his  lamp 
flickered  in  the  socket  and  left  the  Artist  of  the  Beau 
tiful  in  darkness. 

Thus  it  is  that  ideas,  which  grow  up  within  the  im 
agination  and  appear  so  lovely  to  it  and  of  a  value 
beyond  whatever  men  call  valuable,  are  exposed  to- 
be  shattered  and  annihilated  by  contact  with  the  prac 
tical.  It  is  requisite  for  the  ideal  artist  to  possess  a 
force  of  character  that  seems  hardly  compatible  witb 
its  delicacy ;  he  must  keep  his  faith  in  himself  while 
the  incredulous  world  assails  him  with  its  utter  disbev 
lief;  he  must  stand  up  against  mankind  and  be  his 
own  sole  disciple,  both  as  respects  his  genius  and  the 
objects  to  which  it  is  directed. 

For  a  time  Owen  Warland  succumbed  to  this  se~ 
vere  but  inevitable  test.  He  spent  a  few  sluggish 
weeks  with  his  head  so  continually  resting  in  his 
hands  that  the  towns-people  had  scarcely  an  oppor 
tunity  to  see  his  countenance.  When  at  last  it  was 
again  uplifted  to  the  light  of  day,  a  cold,  dull,  name 
less  change  was  perceptible  upon  it.  In  the  opinion 
of  Peter  Hovenden,  however,  and  that  order  of  saga 
cious  understandings  who  think  that  life  should  be 
regulated,  like  clockwork,  with  leaden  weights,  the  al 
teration  was  entirely  for  the  better.  Owen  now,  in- 
deed,  applied  himself  to  business  with  dogged  indus 
try.  It  was  marvellous  to  witness  the  obtuse  gravity 
with  which  he  would  inspect  the  wheels  of  a  great 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.       513 

old  silver  watch;  thereby  delighting  the  owner,  in 
whose  fob  it  had  been  worn  till  he  deemed  it  a  por 
tion  of  his  own  life,  and  was  accordingly  jealous  of  its 
treatment.  In  consequence  of  the  good  report  thus 
acquired,  Owen  Warland  was  invited  by  the  proper 
authorities  to  regulate  the  clock  in  the  church  steeple. 
He  succeeded  so  admirably  in  this  matter  of  public 
interest  that  the  merchants  gruffly  acknowledged  his 
merits  on  'Change ;  the  nurse  whispered  his  praises 
as  she  gave  the  potion  in  the  sick-chamber ;  the  lover 
blessed  him  at  the  hour  of  appointed  interview  ;  and 
the  town  in  general  thanked  Owen  for  the  punctuality 
of  dinner  time.  In  a  word,  the  heavy  weight  upon 
his  spirits  kept  everything  in  order,  not  merely  within 
his  own  system,  but  wheresoever  the  iron  accents  of 
the  church  clock  were  audible.  It  was  a  circumstance, 
though  minute,  yet  characteristic^)?  his  present  state, 
that,  when  employed  to  engrave  names  or  initials  on 
silver  spoons,  he  now  wrote  the  requisite  letters  in  the 
plainest  possible  style,  omitting  a  variety  of  fanciful 
flourishes  that  had  heretofore  distinguished  his  work 
in  this  kind. 

One  day,  during  the  era  of  this  happy  transforma 
tion,  old  Peter  Hovenden  came  to  visit  his  former  ap 
prentice. 

"Well,  Owen,"  said  he,  "I  am  glad  to  hear  such 
good  accounts  of  you  from  all  quarters,  and  especially 
from  the  town  clock  yonder,  which  speaks  in  your 
commendation  every  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  Only 
get  rid  altogether  of  your  nonsensical  trash  about  the 
beautiful,  which  I  nor  nobody  else,  nor  yourself  to 
boot,  could  ever  understand,  —  only  free  yourself  of 
that,  and  your  success  in  life  is  as  sure  as  daylight. 
Why,  if  you  go  on  in  this  way,  I  sheuld  even  venture 

VOL.  ii.  33 


614          MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

to  let  you  doctor  this  precious  old  watch  of  mine , 
though,  except  my  daughter  Annie,  I  have  nothing 
else  so  valuable  in  the  world." 

"  I  should  hardly  dare  touch  it,  sir,"  replied  Owen, 
in  a  depressed  tone ;  for  he  was  weighed  down  by  his 
old  master's  presence. 

"  In  time,"  said  the  latter,  —  "  in  time,  you  will  be 
capable  of  it." 

The  old  watchmaker,  with  the  freedom  naturally 
consequent  on  his  former  authority,  went  on  inspect 
ing  the  work  which  Owen  had  in  hand  at  the  moment, 
together  with  other  matters  that  were  in  progress.  The 
artist,  meanwhile,  could  scarcely  lift  his  head.  There 
was  nothing  so  antipodal  to  his  nature  as  this  man's 
cold,  unimaginative  sagacity,  by  contact  with  which 
everything  was  converted  into  a  dream  except  the 
densest  matter  of  the  physical  world.  Owen  groaned 
in  spirit  and  prayed  fervently  to  be  delivered  from 
him. 

"  But  what  is  this  ?  "  cried  Peter  Hovenden  ab 
ruptly,  taking  up  a  dusty  bell  glass,  beneath  which  ap 
peared  a  mechanical  something,  as  delicate  and  mi 
nute  as  the  system  of  a  butterfly's  anatomy.  "  What 
have  we  here  ?  Owen  !  Owen  !  there  is  witchcraft  in 
these  little  chains,  and  wheels,  and  paddles.  See ! 
with  one  pinch  of  my  finger  and  thumb  I  am  going  to 
deliver  you  from  all  future  peril." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  screamed  Owen  Warland, 
springing  up  with  wonderful  energy,  "  as  you  would 
not  drive  me  mad,  do  not  touch  it !  The  slightest  pres 
sure  of  your  finger  would  ruin  me  forever." 

"  Aha,  young  man  !  And  is  it  so  ?  "  said  the  old 
watchmaker,  looking  at  him  with  just  enough  of  pene 
tration  to  torture  Owen's  soul  with  the  bitterness  of 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.        515 

worldly  criticism.  "  Well,  take  your  own  course ;  but 
I  warn  you  again  that  in  this  small  piece  of  mechan 
ism  lives  your  evil  spirit.  Shall  I  exorcise  him  ?  " 

"  You  are  my  evil  spirit,"  answered  Owen,  much  ex 
cited,  —  "  you  and  the  hard,  coarse  world  !  The  leaden 
thoughts  and  the  despondency  that  you  fling  upon  me 
are  my  clogs,  else  I  should  long  ago  have  achieved  the 
task  that  I  was  created  for." 

Peter  Hovenden  shook  his  head,  with  the  mixture  of 
contempt  and  indignation  which  mankind,  of  whom  he 
was  partly  a  representative,  deem  themselves  entitled 
to  feel  towards  all  simpletons  who  seek  other  prizes 
than  the  dusty  one  along  the  highway.  He  then  took 
his  leave,  with  an  uplifted  finger  and  a  sneer  upon  his 
face  that  haunted  the  artist's  dreams  for  many  a  night 
afterwards.  At  the  time  of  his  old  master's  visit,  Owen 
was  probably  on  the  point  of  taking  up  the  relinquished 
task  ;  but,  by  this  sinister  event,  he  was  thrown  back 
into  the  state  whence  he  had  been  slowly  emerging. 

But  the  innate  tendency  of  his  soul  had  only  been 
accumulating  fresh  vigor  during  its  apparent  sluggish 
ness.  As  the  summer  advanced  he  almost  totally  re 
linquished  his  business,  and  permitted  Father  Time,  so 
far  as  the  old  gentleman  was  represented  by  the  clocks 
and  watches  under  his  control,  to  stray  at  random 
through  human  life,  making  infinite  confusion  among 
the  train  of  bewildered  hours.  He  wasted  the  sun 
shine,  as  people  said,  in  wandering  through  the  woods 
and  fields  and  along  the  banks  of  streams.  There,  like 
a  child,  he  found  amusement  in  chasing  butterflies  or 
watching  the  motions  of  water  insects.  There  was 
something  truly  mysterious  in  the  intentness  with 
which  he  contemplated  these  living  playthings  as  they 
sported  on  the  breeze  or  examined  the  structure  of  an 


516          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

imperial  insect  whom  he  had  imprisoned.  .The .chase 
of  butterflies  was  an  apt  emblem  of  the  ideal  pursuit  in 
which  he  had  spent  so  many  golden  hours  ;  but  would 
the  beautiful  idea  ever  be  yielded  to  his  hand  like  the 
butterfly  that  symbolized  it  ?  Sweet,  doubtless,  were 
these  days,  and  congenial  to  the  artist's  soul.  They 
were  full  of  bright  conceptions,  which  gleamed  through 
his  intellectual  world  as  the  butterflies  gleamed  through 
the  outward  atmosphere,  and  were  real  to  him,  for  the 
instant,  without  the  toil,  and  perplexity,  and  many 
disappointments  of  attempting  to  make  them  visible 
to  the  sensual  eye.  Alas  that  the  artist,  whether  in 
poetry,  or  whatever  other  material,  may  not  content 
himself  with  the  inward  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful, 
but  must  chase  the  flitting  mystery  beyond  the  verge 
of  his  ethereal  domain,  and  crush  its  frail  being  in 
seizing  it  with  a  material  grasp.  Owen  Waiiand  felt 
the  impulse  to  give  external  reality  to  his  ideas  as  ir 
resistibly  as  any  of  the  poets  or  painters  who  have  ar 
rayed  the  world  in  a  dimmer  and  fainter  beauty,  im 
perfectly  copied  from  the  richness  of  their  visions. 

The  night  was  now  his  time  for  the  slow  progress  of 
re-creating  the  one  idea  to  which  all  his  intellectual  ac 
tivity  referred  itself.  Always  at  the  approach  of  dusk 
he  stole  into  the  town,  locked  himself  within  his  shop, 
and  wrought  with  patient  delicacy  of  touch  for  many 
hours.  Sometimes  he  was  startled  by  the  rap  of  the 
watchman,  who,  when  all  the  world  should  be  asleep, 
had  caught  the  gleam  of  lamplight  through  the  crevices 
of  Owen  Warland's  shutters.  Daylight,  to  the  morbid 
sensibility  of  his  mind,  seemed  to  have  an  intrusiveness 
that  interfered  with  his  pursuits.  On  cloudy  and  in 
clement  days,  therefore,  he  sat  with  his  head  upon  his 
hands,  muffling,  as  it  were,  his  sensitive  brain  in  a  mist 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       517 

of  indefinite  musings  ;  for   it  was  a  relief  to  escape  * 
from  the  sharp  distinctness  with  which  he  was  com 
pelled  to  shape  out   his  thoughts  during  his  nightly 
t6il. 

From  one  of  these  fits  of  torpor  he  was  aroused  by 
the  entrance  of  Annie  Hovenden,  who  came  into  the 
shop  with  the  freedom  of  a  customer,  and  also  with 
something  of  the  familiarity  of  a  childish  friend.  She 
had  worn  a  hole  through  her  silver  thimble,  and  wanted 
Owen  to  repair  it. 

"  But  I  don't  know  whether  you  will  condescend  to 
such  a  task,"  said  she,  laughing,  "  now  that  you  are 
so  taken  up  with  the  notion  of  putting  spirit  into  ma 
chinery." 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  idea,  Annie  ?  "  said  Owen, 
starting  in  surprise.  , 

"Oh,  out  of  my  own  head,"  answered  she,  "and 
from  something  that  I  heard  you  say,  long  ago,  when 
you  were  but  a  boy  and  I  a  little  child.  But  come ; 
will  you  mend  this  poor  thimble  of  mine  ?  " 

"  Anything  for  your  sake,  Annie,"  said  Owen  War- 
land,  — "  anything,  even  were  it  to  work  at  Robert 
Danforth's  forge." 

"  And  that  would  be  a  pretty  sight !  "  retorted  An 
nie,  glancing  with  imperceptible  slightness  at  the  art 
ist's  small  and  slender  frame.  "Well;  here  is  the 
thimble." 

"But  that  is  a  strange  idea  of  yours,"  said  Owen,  k 
"  about  the  spiritualization  of  matter." 

And  then  the  thought  stole  into  his  mind  that  this 
young  girl  possessed  the  gift  to  comprehend  him  bet 
ter  than  all  the  world  besides.  And  what  a  help  and 
Strength  would  it  be  to  him  in  his  lonely~tdit  if ~fae 
ftould  gain  the  sympathy  of  the  only  being  whom  he 


518  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

loved  !  To  persons  whose  pursuits  are  insulated  from 
the  common  business  of  life  —  who  are  either  in  ad 
vance  of  mankind  or  apart  from  it  —  there  often  comes 
a  sensation  of  moral  cold  that  makes  the  spirit  shiver 
as  if  it  had  reached  the  frozen  solitudes  around  the 
pole.  What  the  prophet,  the  poet,  the  reformer,  the 
criminal,  or  any  other  man  with  human  yearnings,  but 
separatee!  from  the  multitude  by  a  peculiar  lot,  might 
feel,  poor  Owen  felt. 

"  Annie,"  cried  he,  growing  pale  as  death  at  the 
thought,  "  how  gladly  would  I  tell  you  the  secret  of 
my  pursuit !  You,  methinks,  would  estimate  it  rightly. 
You,  I  know,  would  hear  it  with  a  reverence  that  I 
must  not  expect  from  the  harsh,  material  world." 

"  Would  I  not?  to  be  sure  I  would! "  replied  Annie 
Hovenden,  lightly  laughing.  "  Come  ;  explain  to  me 
quickly  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  little  whirligig,  so 
delicately  wrought  that  it  might  be  a  plaything  for 
Queen  Mab.  See  !  I  will  put  it  in  motion." 

"  Hold !  "  exclaimed  Owen,  "  hold !  " 

Annie  had  but  given  the  slightest  possible  touch, 
with  the  point  of  a  needle,  to  the  same  minute  por 
tion  of  complicated  machinery  which  has  been  more 
than  once  mentioned,  when  the  artist  seized  her  by 
the  wrist  with  a  force  that  made  her  scream  aloud. 
She  was  affrighted  at  the  convulsion  of  intense  rage 
and  anguish  that  writhed  across  his  features.  The 
next  instant  he  let  his  head  sink  upon  his  hands. 

"  Go,  Amrie,"  murmured  he ;  "  I  have  deceived  my 
self,  and  must  suffer  for  it.  I  yearned  for  sympathy, 
and  thought,  and  fancied,  and  dreamed  that  you  might 


i 


give  it  me;  but  you  lack  the  talisman,  Annie,  that 
should  admit  you  into  my  secrets.  That  touch  has 
ftndone  the  toil  of  months  and  the  thought  of  a  life- 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       519 

time!     It  was  not  your  fault,  Annie;  but  you  have 
ruined  me !  " 

Poor  Owen  Warland !  He  had  indeed  erred,  yet 
pardonably ;  for  if  any  human  spirit  could  have  suffi 
ciently  reverenced  the  processes  so  sacred  in  his  eyes, 
it  must  have  been  a  woman's.  Even  Annie  Hoveii- 
den,  possibly,  might  not  have  disappointed  him  had  ^ 
she  been  enlightened  by  the  deep  intelligence  of  love. 

The  artist  spent  the  ensuing  winter  in  a  way  that 
satisfied  any  persons  who  had  hitherto  retained  a 
hopeful  opinion  of  him  that  he  was,  in  truth,  irrevo 
cably  doomed  to  inutility  as  regarded  the  world,  and 
to  an  evil  destiny  on  his  own  part.  The  decease  of 
a  relative  had  put  him  in  possession  of  a  small  in 
heritance.  Thus  freed  from  the  necessity  of  toil,  and 
having  lost  the  steadfast  influence  of  a  great  purpose, 
• —  great,  at  least,  to  him,  —  he  abandoned  himself  to 
habits  from  which  it  might  have  been  supposed  the 
mere  delicacy  of  his  organization  would  have  availed 
to  secure  him.  But  when  the  ethereal  portion  of  a 
man  of  genius  is  obscured,  the  earthly  part  assumes 
an  influence  the  more  uncontrollable,  because  the  char 
acter  is  now  thrown  off  the  balance  to  which  Provi 
dence  had  so  nicely  adjusted  it,  and  which,  in  coarser 
natures,  is  adjusted  by  some  other  method.  Owen 
Warland  made  proof  of  whatever  show  of  bliss  may 
be  found  in  riot.  He  looked  at  the  world  through  the 
golden  medium  of  wine,  and  contemplated  the  visions 
that  bubble  up  so  gayly  around  the  brim  of  the  glass, 
and  that  people  the  air  with  shapes  of  pleasant  mad 
ness,  which  so  soon  grow  ghostly  and  forlorn.  Even 
when  this  dismal  and  inevitable  change  had  taken 
place,  the  young  man  might  still  have  continued  to 
the  cup  of  enchantments,  though  its  vapor  did 


520  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

but  shroud  life  in  gloom  and  fill  the  gloom  with  spec 
tres  that  mocked  at  him.  There  was  a  certain  irk- 
someness  of  spirit,  which,  being  real,  and  the  deepest 
sensation  of  which  the  artist  was  now  conscious,  was 
more  intolerable  than  any  fantastic  miseries  and  hor 
rors  that  the  abuse  of  wine  could  summon  up.  In  the 
latter  case  he  could  remember,  even  out  of  the  midst 
of  his  trouble,  that  all  was  but  a  delusion ;  in  the 
former,  the  heavy  anguish  was  his  actual  life. 

From  this  perilous  state  he  was  redeemed  by  an  in 
cident  which  more  than  one  person  witnessed,  but  of 
which  the  shrewdest  could  not  explain  or  conjecture 
the  operation  on  Owen  Warland's  mind.  It  was  very 
simple.  On  a  warm  afternoon  of  spring,  as  the  artist 
sat  among  his  riotous  companions  with  a  glass  of  wine 
before  him,  a  splendid  butterfly  flew  in  at  the  open 
window  and  fluttered  about  his  head. 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Owen,  who  had  drank  freely, 
"  are  you  alive  again,  child  of  the  sun  and  playmate 
of  the  summer  breeze,  after  your  dismal  winter's  nap  ? 
Then  it  is  time  for  me  to  be  at  work !  " 

And,  leaving  his  unemptied  glass  upon  the  table, 
he  departed  and  was  never  known  to  sip  another  drop 
of  wine. 

And  now,  again,  he  resumed  his  wanderings  in  the 
woods  and  fields.  It  might  be  fancied  that  the  bright 
butterfly,  which  had  come  so  spirit-like  into  the  win 
dow  as  Owen  sat  with  the  rude  revellers,  was  indeed 
a  spirit  commissioned  to  recall  him  to  the  pure,  ideal 
life  that  had  so  etherealized  him  among  men.  It 
might  be  fancied  that  he  went  forth  to  seek  this  spirit 
in  its  sunny  haunts ;  for  still,  as  in  the  summer  time 
gone  by,  he  was  seen  to  steal  gently  up  wherever  a 
butterfly  had  alighted,  and  lose  himself  in  contempla- 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.       521 

tion  of  it.  When  it  took  flight  his  eyes  followed  the 
winged  vision,  as  if  its  airy  track  would  show  the  path 
to  heaven.  But  what  could  be  the  purpose  of  the  un 
seasonable  toil,  which  was  again  resumed,  as  the  watch 
man  knew  by  the  lines  of  lamplight  through  the  crev 
ices  of  Owen  Warland's  shutters?  The  towns-people") 
had  one  comprehensive  explanation  of  all  these  sin-  L  Q  O0 
gularities.  Owen  Warland  had  gone  mad  !  How  \ 
universally  efficacious  —  how  satisfactory,  too,  and 
soothing  to  the  injured  sensibility  of  narrowness  and 
dulness  —  is  this  easy  method  of  accounting  for  what 
ever  lies  beyond  the  world's  most  ordinary  scope  ! 
From  St.  Paul's  days  down  to  our  poor  little  Artist 
of  the  Beautiful,  the  same  talisman  had  been  applied 
to  the  elucidation  of  all  mysteries  in  the  words  or 
deeds  of  men  who  spoke  or  acted  too  wisely  or  too 
well.  In  Owen  Warland's  case  the  judgment  of  his 
towns-people  may  have  been  correct.  Perhaps  he  was 
mad.  The  lack  of  sympathy  —  that  contrast  between 
himself  and  his  neighbors  which  took  away  the  re 
straint  of  example — was  enough  to  make  him  so.  Or 
possibly  he  had  caught  just  so  much  of  ethereal  ra 
diance  as  served  to  bewilder  him,  in  an  earthly  sense, 
by  its  intermixture  with  the  common  daylight. 

One  evening,  when  the  artist  had  returned  from  a 
customary  ramble  and  had  just  thrown  the  lustre  of 
his  lamp  on  the  delicate  piece  of  work  so  often  inter 
rupted,  but  still  taken  up  again,  as  if  his  fate  were 
embodied  in  its  mechanism,  he  was  surprised  by  the 
entrance  of  old  Peter  Hovenden.  Owen  never  met 
this  man  without  a  shrinking  of  the  heart.  Of  all  the 
world  he  was  most  terrible,  by  reason  of  a  keen  un 
derstanding  which  saw  so  distinctly  what  it  did  see, 
and  disbelieved  so  uncompromisingly  in  what  it  could 


522          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

not_see.  On  this  occasion  the  old  watchmaker  had 
merely  a  gracious  word  or  two  to  say. 

"  Owen,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "  we  must  see  you  at  my 
house  to-morrow  night." 

The  artist  began  to  mutter  some  excuse. 

"  Oh,  but  it  must  be  so,"  quoth  Peter  Hovenden, 
"  for  the  sake  of  the  days  when  you  were  one  of  the 
household.  What,  my  boy  !  don't  you  know  that  my 
daughter  Annie  is  engaged  to  Robert  Danforth  ?  We 
are  making  an  entertainment,  in  our  humble  way,  to 
celebrate  the  event." 

"  Ah  J  "    said  Owen. 

That  little  monosyllable  was  all  he  uttered  ;  its  tone 
seemed  cold  and  unconcerned  to  an  ear  like  Peter  Ho- 
venden's  ;  and  yet  there  was  in  it  the  stifled  outcry  of 
the  poor  artist's  heart,  which  he  compressed  within  him 
like  a  man  holding  down  an  evil  spirit.  One  slight 
outbreak,  however,  imperceptible  to  the  old  watch 
maker,  he  allowed  himself.  Raising  the  instrument 
with  which  he  was  about  to  begin  his  work,  he  let  it 
fall  upon  the  little  system  of  machinery  that  had,  anew, 
cost  him  months  of  thought  and  toil.  It  was  shattered 
by  the  stroke  ! 

Owen  Warland's  story  would  have  been  no  tolerable 
representation  of  the  troubled  life  of  those  who  strive 
to  create  the  beautiful,  if,  amid  all  other  thwarting  in 
fluences,  love  had  not  interposed  to  steal  the  cunning 
from  his  hand.  Outwardly  he  had  been  no  ardent  or 
enterprising  lover  ;  the  career  of  his  passion  had  con 
fined  its  tumults  and  vicissitudes  so  entirely  within  the 
artist's  imagination  that  Annie  herself  had  scarcely 
more  than  a  woman's  intuitive  perception  of  it ;  but, 
in  Owen's  view,  it  covered  the  whole  field  of  his  life. 
Forgetful  of  the  time  when  she  had  shown  herself  in- 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       523 

capable  of  any  deep  response,  he  had  persisted  in  con 
necting  all  his  dreams  of  artistical  success  with  Annie's 
image  ;  she  was  the  visible  shape  in  which  the  spiritual 
power  that  he  worshipped,  and  on  whose  altar  he  hoped 
to  lay  a  not  unworthy  offering,  was  made  manifest  to 
him.  Of  course  he  had  deceived  himself  ;  there  were 
no  such  attributes  in  Annie  Hovenden  as  his  imagina 
tion  had  endowed  her  with.  She,  in  the  aspect  which 
she  wore  to  his  inward  vision,  was  as  much  a  creature 
of  his  own  as  the  mysterious  piece  of  mechanism  would 
be  were  it  ever  realized.  Had  he  become  convinced  of 
his  mistake  through  the  medium  of  successful  love,  — 
had  he  won  Annie  to  his  bosom,  and  there  beheld  her 
fade  from  angel  into  ordinary  woman,  —  the  disap 
pointment  might  have  driven  him  back,  with  concen 
trated  energy,  upon  his  sole  remaining  object.  On  the 
other  hand,  had  he  found  Annie  what  he  fancied,  his 
lot  would  have  been  so  rich  in  beauty  that  out  of  its 
mere  redundancy  he  might  have  wrought  the  beautiful 
into  many  a  worthier  type  than  he  had  toiled  for ;  but 
the  guise  in  which  his  sorrow  came  to  him,  the  sense 
that  the  angel  of  his  life  had  been  snatched  away  and 
given  to  a  rude  man  of  earth  and  iron,  who  could 
neither  need  nor  appreciate  her  ministrations,  —  this 
was  the  very  perversity  of  fate  that  makes  human  ex 
istence  appear  too  absurd  and  contradictory  to  be  the 
scene  of  one  other  hope  or  one  other  fear.  There  was 
nothing  left  for  Owen  Warland  but  to  sit  down  like  a 
man  that  had  been  stunned. 

He  went  through  a  fit  of  illness.  After  his  recovery 
his  small  and  slender  frame  assumed  an  obtuser  gar 
niture  of  flesh  than  it  had  ever  before  worn.  His 
thin  cheeks  became  round ;  his  delicate  little  hand,  so 
spiritually  fashioned  to  achieve  fairy  task-work,  grew 


524          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

plumper  than  the  hand  of  a  thriving  infant.  His  as 
pect  had  a  childishness  such  as  might  have  induced  a 
stranger  to  pat  him  on  the  head  —  pausing,  however, 
in  the  act,  to  wonder  what  manner  of  child  was  here. 
It  was  as  if  the  spirit  had  gone  out  of  him,  leaving  the 
body  to  flourish  in  a  sort  of  vegetable  existence.  Not 
that  Owen  Warland  was  idiotic.  He  could  talk,  and 
not  irrationally.  Somewhat  of  a  babbler,  indeed,  did 
people  begin  to  think  him  ;  for  he  was  apt  to  discourse 
at  wearisome  length  of  marvels  of  mechanism  that  he 
had  read  about  in  books,  but  which  he  had  learned 
to  consider  as  absolutely  fabulous.  Among  them  he 
enumerated  the  Man  of  Brass,  constructed  by  Albertus 
Magnus,  and  the  Brazen  Head  of  Friar  Bacon  ;  and, 
coming  down  to  later  times,  the  automata  of  a  little 
coach  and  horses,  which  it  was  pretended  had  been 
manufactured  for  the  Dauphin  of  France ;  together 
with  an  insect  that  buzzed  about  the  ear  like  a  living 
fly,  and  yet  was  but  a  contrivance  of  minute  steel 
springs.  There  was  a  story,  too,  of  a  duck  that  wad 
dled,  and  quacked,  and  ate  ;  though,  had  any  honest 
citizen  purchased  it  for  dinner,  he  would  have  found 
himself  cheated  with  the  mere  mechanical  apparition 
of  a  duck. 

"  But  all  these  accounts,"  said  Owen  Warland,  "  I 
am  now  satisfied  are  mere  impositions." 

Then,  in  a  mysterious  way,  he  would  confess  that  he 
once  thought  differently.  In  his  idle  and  dreamy  days 
he  had  considered  it  possible,  in  a  certain  sense,  to 
spiritualize  machinery,  and  to  combine  with  the  new 
species  of  life  and  motion  thus  produced  a  beauty  that 
should  attain  to  the  ideal  which  Nature  has  proposed 
to  herself  in  all  her  creatures,  but  has  never  taken 
paii»s  to  realize.  He  seemed,  however,  to  retain  no 


THE    ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       525 

very  distinct  perception  either  of  the  process  of  achiev 
ing  this  object  or  of  the  design  itself. 

"I  have  thrown  it  all  aside  now,"  he  would  say. 
w  It  was  a  dream  such  as  young  men  are  always  mys 
tifying  themselves  with.  Now  that  I  have  acquired 
a  little  common  sense,  it  makes  me  laugh  to  think 
of  it." 

Poor,  poor  and  fallen  Owen  Warland !  These  were 
the  symptoms  that  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  inhabitant 
of  the  better  sphere  that  lies  unseen  around  us.  He 
had  lost  his  faith  in  the  invisible,  and  now  prided  him 
self,  as  such  unfortunates  invariably  do,  in  the  wisdom 
which  rejected  much  that  even  his  eye  could  see,  and 
trusted  confidently  in  nothing  but  what  his  hand  could 
touch.  This  is  the  calamity  of  men  whose  spiritual 
part  dies  out  of  them  and  leaves  the  grosser  under 
standing  to  assimilate  them  more  and  more  to  the 
things  of  which  alone  it  can  take  cognizance ;  but  in 
Owen  Warland  the  spirit  was  not  dead  nor  passed 
away  ;  it  only  slept. 

How  it  awoke  again  is  not  recorded.  Perhaps  the 
torpid  slumber  was  broken  by  a  convulsive  pain.  Per 
haps,  as  in  a  former  instance,  the  butterfly  came  and 
hovered  about  his  head  and  reinspired  him,  —  as  in 
deed  this  creature  of  the  sunshine  had  always  a  myste 
rious  mission  for  the  artist,  —  reinspired  him  with  the 
former  purpose  of  his  life.  Whether  it  were  pain  or 
happiness  that  thrilled  through  his  veins,  his  first  im 
pulse  was  to  thank  Heaven  for  rendering  him  again 
the  being  of  thought,  imagination,  and  keenest  sensi 
bility  that  he  had  long  ceased  to  be. 

"Now  for  my  task,"  said  he.  "Never  did  I  feel 
such  strength  for  it  as  now." 

Yet,  strong  as  he  felt  himself,  he  was  incited  to  toil 


526          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

the  more  diligently  by  an  anxiety  lest  death  should 
surprise  him  in  the  midst  of  his  labors.  This  anxiety, 
perhaps,  is  common  to  all  men  who  set  their  hearts 
upon  anything  so  high,  in  their  own  view  of  it,  that 
life  becomes  of  importance  only  as  conditional  to  its 
accomplishment.  So  long  as  we  love  life  for  itself,  we 
seldom  dread  the  losing  it.  When  we  desire  life  for 
the  attainment  of  an  object,  we  recognize  the  frailty  of 
its  texture.  But,  side  by  side  with  this  sense  of  inse- 

.  curity,  there  is  a  vital  faith  in  our  invulnerability  to 
the  shaft  of  death  while  engaged  in  any  task  that 

\  seems  assigned  by  Providence  as  our  proper  thing  to 
do,  and  which  the  world  would  have  cause  to  mourn 
for  should  we  leave  it  unaccomplished.  Can  the  phi 
losopher,  big  with  the  inspiration  of  an  idea  that  is  to 
reform  mankind,  believe  that  he  is  to  be  beckoned 
from  this  sensible  existence  at  the  very  instant  when 
he  is  mustering  his  breath  to  speak  the  word  of  light  ? 
Should  he  perish  so,  the  weary  ages  may  pass  away  — 
the  world's,  whose  life  sand  may  fall,  drop  by  drop  — 
before  another  intellect  is  prepared  to  develop  the  truth 
that  might  have  been  uttered  then.  But  history  af 
fords  many  an  example  where  the  most  precious  spirit, 
at  any  particular  epoch  manifested  in  human  shape, 
has  gone  hence  untimely,  without  space  allowed  him,  so 
far  as  mortal  judgment  could  discern,  to  perform  his 
mission  on  the  earth.  The  prophet  dies,  and  the  man 
of  torpid  heart  and  sluggish  brain  lives  on.  The  jpoet 
leaves  his  song  half  sung,  or  finishes  it,  beyond  the 
scope  of  mortal  ears,  in  a  celestial  choir.  The  painter 
—  as  Allston  did  —  leaves  half  his  conception  on  the 
canvas  to  sadden  us  with  its  imperfect  beauty,  and 
goes  to  picture  forth  the  whole,  if  it  be  no  irreverence 
to  say  so,  in  the  hues  of  heaven.  But  rather  such  in- 


THE   ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       527 

complete  designs  of  this  life  will  be  perfected  nowhere. 
This  so  frequent  abortion  of  man's  dearest  projects 
must  be  taken  as  a  proof  that  the  deeds  of  earth,  how 
ever  etherealized  by  piety  or  genius,  are  without  value,  K  y^ 
except  as  exercises  and  manifestations  of  the  spirit. 
In  heaven,  all  ordinary  thought  is  higher  and  more 
melodious  than  Milton's  song.  Then,  would  he  add 
another  verse  to  any  strain  that  he  had  left  unfinished 
here? 

But  to  return  to  Owen  Warland.  It  was  his  fortune, 
good  or  ill,  to  achieve  the  purpose  of  his  life.  Pass 
we  over  a  long  space  of  intense  thought,  yearning  ef 
fort,  minute  toil,  and  wasting  anxiety,  succeeded  by  an 
instant  of  solitary  triumph :  let  all  this  be  imagined  ; 
and  then  behold  the  artist,  on  a  winter  evening,  seek 
ing  admittance  to  Robert  Danforth's  fireside  circle. 
There  he  found  the  man  of  iron,  with  his  massive  sub 
stance  thoroughly  warmed  and  attempered  by  domes 
tic  influences.  And  there  was  Annie,  too,  now  trans 
formed  into  a  matron,  with  much  of  her  husband's 
plain  and  sturdy  nature,  but  imbued,  as  Owen  War- 
land  still  believed,  with  a  finer  grace,  that  might  ena 
ble  her  to  be  the  interpreter  between  strength  and 
beauty.  It  happened,  likewise,  that  old  Peter  Hoven- 
den  was  a  guest  this  evening  at  his  daughter's  fireside , 
and  it  was  his  well-remembered  expression  of  keen, 
cold  criticism  that  first  encountered  the  artist's  glance. 

"  My  old  friend  Owen  !  "  cried  Robert  Danforth, 
starting  up,  and  compressing  the  artist's  delicate  fin 
gers  within  a  hand  that  was  accustomed  to  gripe  bars 
of  iron.  "  This  is  kind  and  neighborly  to  come  to  us 
at  last.  I  was  afraid  your  perpetual  motion  had  be 
witched  you  out  of  the  remembrance  of  old  times." 

"  We  are  glad  to  see  you,"    said   Annie,  while  a 


628          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE, 

blush  reddened  her  matronly  cheek.  "  It  was  not  like 
a  friend  to  stay  from  us  so  long." 

"Well,  Owen,"  inquired  the  old  watchmaker,  as  his 
first  greeting,  "  how  comes  on  the  beautiful  ?  Have 
you  created  it  at  last  ?  " 

The  artist  did  not  immediately  reply,  being  startled 
by  the  apparition  of  a  young  child  of  strength  that 
was  tumbling  about  on  the  carpet,  —  a  little  personage 
who  had  come  mysteriously  out  of  the  infinite  but 
with  something  so  sturdy  and  real  in  his  composition 
that  he  seemed  moulded  out  of  the  densest  substance 
which  earth  could  supply.  This  hopeful  infant  crawled 
towards  the  new-comer,  and  setting  himself  on  end, 
as  Robert  Danforth  expressed  the  posture,  stared  at 
Owen  with  a  look  of  such  sagacious  observation  that 
the  mother  could  not  help  exchanging  a  proud  glance 
with  her  husband.  But  the  artist  was  disturbed  by  the 
child's  look,  as  imagining  a  resemblance  between  it 
and  Peter  Hovenden's  habitual  expression.  He  could 
have  fancied  that  the  old  watchmaker  was  compressed 
into  this  baby  shape,  and  looking  out  of  those  baby 
eyes,  and  repeating,  as  he  now  did,  the  malicious  ques 
tion: — 

"  The  beautiful,  Owen  !  How  comes  on  the  beau 
tiful?  Have  you  succeeded  in  creating  the  beauti 
ful?" 

"  I  have  succeeded,"  replied  the  artist,  with  a  mo 
mentary  light  of  triumph  in  his  eyes  and  a  smile  of 
sunshine,  yet  steeped  in  such  depth  of  thought  that  it 
was  almost  sadness.  "  Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  the  truth. 
I  have  succeeded." 

"  Indeed !  "  cried  Annie,  a  look  of  maiden  mirthful- 
ness  peeping  out  of  her  face  again.  "  And  is  it  lawful, 
ttow,  to  inquire  what  the  secret  is  ?  " 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       529 

"  Surely  ;  it  is  to  disclose  it  that  I  have  come,"  an 
swered  Owen  Warlaiid.  "  You  shall  know,  and  see, 
and  touch,  and  possess  the  secret !  For,  Annie,  —  if 
by  that  name  I  may  still  address  the  friend  of  my  boy 
ish  years,  —  Annie,  it  is  for  your  bridal  gift  that  I 
have  wrought  this  spiritualized  mechanism,  this  har 
mony  of  motion,  this  mystery  of  beauty.  It  comes  late, 
indeed ;  but  it  is  as  we  go  onward  in  life,  when  objects 
begin  to  lose  their  freshness  of  hue  and  our  souls  their 
delicacy  of  perception,  that  the  spirit  of  beauty  is  most 
needed.  If,  —  forgive  me,  Annie,  —  if  you  know  how 
to  value  this  gift,  it  can  never  come  too  late." 

He  produced,  as  he  spoke,  what  seemed  a  jewel  box. 
It  was  carved  richly  out  of  ebony  by  his  own  hand,  and 
inlaid  with  a  fanciful  tracery  of  pearl,  representing  a 
boy  in  pursuit  of  a  butterfly,  which,  elsewhere,  had  be 
come  a  winged  spirit,  and  was  flying  heavenward; 
while  the  boy,  or  youth,  had  found  such  efficacy  in  his 
strong  desire  that  he  ascended  from  earth  to  cloud, 
and  from  cloud  to  celestial  atmosphere,  to  win  the 
beautiful.  This  case  of  ebony  the  artist  opened,  and 
bade  Annie  place  her  finger  on  its  edge.  She  did  so, 
but  almost  screamed  as  a  butterfly  fluttered  forth,  and, 
alighting  on  her  finger's  tip,  sat  waving  the  ample  mag 
nificence  of  its  purple  and  gold-speckled  wings,  as  if  in 
prelude  to  a  flight.  It  is  impossible  to  express  by 
words  the  glory,  the  splendor,  the  delicate  gorgeous- 
ness  which  were  softened  into  the  beauty  of  this  ob 
ject.  Nature's  ideal  butterfly  was  here  realized  in  all 
its  perfection ;  not  in  the  pattern  of  such  faded  insects 
as  flit  among  earthly  flowers,  but  of  those  which  hover 
across  the  meads  of  paradise  for  child-angels  and  the 
spirits  of  departed  infants  to  disport  themselves  with. 
The  rich  down  was  visible  upon  its  wings  ;  the  lustre  of 

VOL..   IL  34 


530  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

its  eyes  seemed  instinct  with  spirit.  The  firelight 
glimmered  around  this  wonder  —  the  candles  gleamed 
upon  it ;  but  it  glistened  apparently  by  its  own  radi 
ance,  and  illuminated  the  finger  and  outstretched  hand 
on  which  it  rested  with  a  white  gleam  like  that  of  pre 
cious  stones.  In  its  perfect  beauty,  the  consideration 
of  size  was  entirely  lost.  Had.  its  wings  overreached 
the  firmament,  the  mind  could  not  have  been  more 
filled  or  satisfied. 

"  Beautiful !  beautiful ! "  exclaimed  Annie.  "  Is  it 
alive  ?  Is  it  alive  ?  " 

"  Alive  ?  To  be  sure  it  is,"  answered  her  husband. 
"  Do  you  suppose  any  mortal  has  skill  enough  to 
make  a  butterfly,  or  would  put  himself  to  the  trouble 
of  making  one,  when  any  child  may  catch  a  score  of 
them  in  a  summer's  afternoon  ?  Alive  ?  Certainly  ! 
But  this  pretty  box  is  undoubtedly  of  our  friend 
Owen's  manufacture  ;  and  really  it  does  him  credit." 

At  this  moment  the  butterfly  waved  its  wings  anew, 
with  a  motion  so  absolutely  lifelike  that  Annie  was 
startled,  and  even  awestricken  ;  for,  in  spite  of  her 
husband's  opinion,  she  could  not  satisfy  herself 
whether  it  was  indeed  a  living  creature  or  a  piece  of 
wondrous  mechanism. 

"Is  it  alive?"  she  repeated,  more  earnestly  than 
before. 

"Judge  for  yourself,"  said  Owen  Warland,  who 
stood  gazing  in  her  face  with  fixed  attention. 

The  butterfly  now  flung  itself  upon  the  air,  fluttered 
round  Annie's  head,  and  soared  into  a  distant  region 
of  the  parlor,  still  making  itself  perceptible  to  sight 
by  the  starry  gleam  in  which  the  motion  of  its  wings 
enveloped  it.  The  infant  on  the  floor  followed  its 
course  with  his  sagacious  little  eyes.  After  flying 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.       531 

about  the  room,  it  returned  in  a  spiral  curve  and  set 
tied  again  on  Annie's  finger. 

"But  is  it  alive?"  exclaimed  she  again;  and  the 
finger  on  which  the  gorgeous  mystery  had  alighted 
was  so  tremulous  that  the  butterfly  was  forced  to  bal 
ance  himself  with  his  wings.  "  Tell  me  if  it  be  alive, 
or  whether  you  created  it." 

"Wherefore  ask  who  created  it,  so  it  be  beautiful?" 
replied  Owen  Warland.  "Alive?  Yes,  Annie;  it 
may  well  be  said  to  possess  life,  for  it  has  absorbed 
my  own  being  into  itself ;  and  in  the  secret  of  that 
butterfly,  and  in  its  beauty,  —  which  is  not  merely 
outward,  but  deep  as  its  whole  system,  —  is  repre 
sented  the  intellect,  the  imagination,  the  sensibility, 
the  soul  of  an  Artist  of  the  Beautiful !  Yes  ;  I  cre 
ated  it.  But  "  —  and  here  his  countenance  somewhat 
changed  —  "this  butterfly  is  not  now  to  me  what  it 
was  when  I  beheld  it  afar  off  in  the  daydreams  of  my 
youth." 

"  Be  it  what  it  may,  it  is  a  pretty  plaything,"  said 
the  blacksmith,  grinning  with  childlike  delight.  "  I 
wonder  whether  it  would  condescend  to  alight  on  such 
a  great  clumsy  finger  as  mine?  Hold  it  hither, 
Annie." 

By  the  artist's  direction,  Annie  touched  her  finger's 
tip  to  that  of  her  husband ;  and,  after  a  momentary 
delay,  the  butterfly  fluttered  from  one  to  the  other.  It 
preluded  a  second  flight  by  a  similar,  yet  not  precisely 
the  same,  waving  of  wings  as  in  the  first  experiment ; 
then,  ascending  from  the  blacksmith's  stalwart  finger, 
it  rose  in  a  gradually  enlarging  curve  to  the  ceiling, 
made  one  wide  sweep  around  the  room,  and  returned 
with  an  undulating  movement  to  the  point  whence  it 
bad  started. 


632          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"  Well,  that  does  beat  all  nature ! "  cried  Kobert 
Danforth,  bestowing  the  heartiest  praise  that  he  could 
find  expression  for ;  and,  indeed,  had  he  paused  there, 
a  man  of  finer  words  and  nicer  perception  could  not 
easily  have  said  more.  "  That  goes  beyond  me,  I  con 
fess.  But  what  then  ?  There  is  more  real  use  in  one 
downright  blow  of  my  sledge  hammer  than  in  the 
whole  five  years'  labor  that  our  friend  Owen  has 
wasted  on  this  butterfly." 

Here  the  child  clapped  his  hands  and  made  a  great 
babble  of  indistinct  utterance,  apparently  demanding 
that  the  butterfly  should  be  given  him  for  a  play 
thing. 

Owen  Warland,  meanwhile,  glanced  sidelong  at 
Annie,  to  discover  whether  she  sympathized  in  her 
husband's  estimate  of  the  comparative  value  of  the 
beautiful  and  the  practical.  There  was,  amid  all  her 
kindness  towards  himself,  amid  all  the  wonder  and 
admiration  with  which  she  contemplated  the  marvel 
lous  work  of  his  hands  and  incarnation  of  his  idea,  a 
secret  scorn  —  too  secret,  perhaps,  for  her  own  con 
sciousness,  and  perceptible  only  to  such  intuitive  dis 
cernment  as  that  of  the  artist.  But  Owen,  in  the  lat 
ter  stages  of  his  pursuit,  had  risen  out  of  the  region  in 
which  such  a  discovery  might  have  been  torture.  He 
knew  that  the  world,  and  Annie  as  the  representative 
of  the  world,  whatever  praise  might  be  bestowed, 
could  never  say  the  fitting  word  nor  feel  the  fitting 
sentiment  which  should  be  the  perfect  recompense  of 
an  artist  who,  symbolizing  a  lofty  moral  by  a  material 
trifle,  —  converting  what  was  earthly  to  spiritual  gold, 
—  had  won  the  beautiful  into  his  handiwork.  Not  at 
this  latest  moment  was  he  to  learn  that  the  reward  of 
all  high  performance  must  be  sought  within  itself,  or 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       533 

Bought  in  vain.  There  was,  however,  a  view  of  the 
matter  which  Annie  and  her  husband,  and  even  Peter 
Hovenden,  might  fully  have  understood,  and  which 
would  have  satisfied  them  that  the  toil  of  years  had 
here  been  worthily  bestowed.  Owen  Warland  might 
have  told  them  that  this  butterfly,  this  plaything,  this 
bridal  gift  of  a  poor  watchmaker  to  a  blacksmith's 
wife,  was,  in  truth,  a  gem  of  art  that  a  monarch 
would  have  purchased  with  honors  and  abundant 
wealth,  and  have  treasured  it  among  the  jewels  of 
his  kingdom  as  the  most  unique  and  wondrous  of 
them  all.  But  the  artist  smiled  and  kept  the  secret 
to  himself. 

"Father,"  said  Annie,  thinking  that  a  word  of 
praise  from  the  old  watchmaker  might  gratify  his  for 
mer  apprentice,  "  do  come  and  admire  this  pretty  but 
terfly." 

"  Let  us  see,"  said  Peter  Hovenden,  rising  from  his 
chair,  with  a  sneer  upon  his  face  that  always  made 
people  doubt,  as  he  himself  did,  in  everything  but  a 
material  existence.  "  Here  is  my  finger  for  it  to  alight 
upon.  I  shall  understand  it  better  when  once  I  have 
touched  it." 

But,  to  the  increased  astonishment  of  Annie,  when 
the  tip  of  her  father's  finger  was  pressed  against  that 
of  her  husband,  on  which  the  butterfly  still  rested,  the 
insect  drooped  its  wings  and  seemed  on  the  point  of 
falling  to  the  floor.  Even  the  bright  spots  of  gold 
upon  its  wings  and  body,  unless  her  eyes  deceived  her, 
grew  dim,  and  the  glowing  purple  took  a  dusky  hue, 
and  the  starry  lustre  that  gleamed  around  the  black 
smith's  hand  became  faint  and  vanished. 

"  It  is  dying  !  it  is  dying  !  "  cried  Annie,  in  alarm. 

**  It  has  been  delicately  wrought,"  said  the  artist, 


534          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

calmly.  "  As  I  told  you,  it  has  imbibed  a  spiritual  es 
sence  —  call  it  magnetism,  or  what  you  will.  In  an 
atmosphere  of  doubt  and  mockery  its  exquisite  sus 
ceptibility  suffers  torture,  as  does  the  soul  of  him  who 
instilled  his  own  life  into  it.  It  has  already  lost  its 
beauty  ;  in  a  few  moments  more  its  mechanism  would 
be  irreparably  injured." 

"  Take  away  your  hand,  father  !  "  entreated  Annie, 
turning  pale.  "  Here  is  my  child  ;  let  it  rest  on  his 
innocent  hand.  There,  perhaps,  its  life  will  revive 
and  its  colors  grow  brighter  than  ever." 

Her  father,  with  an  acrid  smile,  withdrew  his  finger. 
The  butterfly  then  appeared  to  recover  the  power  of 
voluntary  motion,  while  its  hues  assumed  much  of  their 
original  lustre,  and  the  gleam  of  starlight,  which  was 
its  most  ethereal  attribute,  again  formed  a  halo  round 
about  it.  At  first,  when  transferred  from  Robert  Dan- 
forth's  hand  to  the  small  finger  of  the  child,  this  radi 
ance  grew  so  powerful  that  it  positively  threw  the  little 
fellow's  shadow  back  against  the  wall.  He,  mean 
while,  extended  his  plump  hand  as  he  had  seen  his 
father  and  mother  do,  and  watched  the  waving  of  the 
insect's  wings  with  infantine  delight.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  a  certain  odd  expression  of  sagacity  that 
made  Owen  Warland  feel  as  if  here  were  old  Peter 
Hovenden,  partially,  and  but  partially,  redeemed  from 
his  hard  scepticism  into  childish  faith. 

"  How  wise  the  little  monkey  looks !  "  whispered 
Robert  Danforth  to  his  wife. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  a  child's  face,"  an- 
swered  Annie,  admiring  her  own  infant,  and  with  good 
reason,  far  more  than  the  artistic  butterfly.  "  The 
darling  knows  more  of  the  mystery  than  we  do." 

As  if  the  butterfly,  like  the  artist,  were  conscious  of 


THE  ARTIST  OF   THE  BEAUTIFUL.       536 

something  not  entirely  congenial  in  the  child's  nature, 
it  alternately  sparkled  and  grew  dim.  At  length  it 
arose  from  the  small  hand  of  the  infant  with  an  airy 
motion  that  seemed  to  bear  it  upward  without  an  effort, 
as  if  the  ethereal  instincts  with  which  its  master's  spirit 
had  endowed  it  impelled  this  fair  vision  involuntarily 
to  a  higher  sphere.  Had  there  been  no  obstruction, 
it  might  have  soared  into  the  sky  and  grown  immortal. 
But  its  lustre  gleamed  upon  the  ceiling ;  the  exquisite 
texture  of  its  wings  brushed  against  that  earthly  me 
dium  ;  and  a  sparkle  or  two,  as  of  Stardust,  floated 
downward  and  lay  glimmering  on  the  carpet.  Then 
the  butterfly  came  fluttering  down,  and,  instead  of  re 
turning  to  the  infant,  was  apparently  attracted  towards 
the  artist's  hand. 

"  Not  so !  not  so !  "  murmured  Owen  Warland,  as 
if  his  handiwork  could  have  understood  him.  "  Thou 
has  gone  forth  out  of  thy  master's  heart.  There  is  no 
return  for  thee." 

With  a  wavering  movement,  and  emitting  a  tremu 
lous  radiance,  the  butterfly  struggled,  as  it  were,  tow 
ards  the  infant,  and  was  about  to  alight  upon  his 
finger ;  but  while  it  still  hovered  in  the  air,  the  little 
child  of  strength,  with  his  grandsire's  sharp  and  shrewd 
expression  in  his  face,  made  a  snatch  at  the  marvellous 
insect  and  compressed  it  in  his  hand.  Annie  screamed. 
Old  Peter  Hovenden  burst  into  a  cold  and  scornful 
laugh.  The  blacksmith,  by  main  force,  unclosed  the 
infant's  hand,  and  found  within  the  palm  a  small  heap 
of  glittering  fragments,  whence  the  mystery  of  beauty 
had  fled  forever.  And  as  for  Owen  Warland,  he 
looked  placidly  at  what  seemed  the  ruin  of  his  life's 
labor,  and  which  was  yet  no  ruin.  He  had  caught  a 
far  other  butterfly  than  this.  When  the  artist  rose 


536          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

high  enough  to  achieve  the  beautiful,  the  symbol  by 
which  he  made  it  perceptible  to  mortal  senses  became 
of  little  value  in  his  eyes  while  his  spirit  possessed  it 
self  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  reality. 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION. 

THE  other  day,  having  a  leisure  hour  at  my  disposal, 
I  stepped  into  a  new  museum,  to  which  my  notice  was 
casually  drawn  by  a  small  and  unobtrusive  sign  :  "  To 

BE    SEEN   HERE,   A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION."      Such 

was  the  simple,  yet  not  altogether  unpromising,  an 
nouncement  that  turned  my  steps  aside  for  a  little 
while  from  the  sunny  sidewalk  of  our  principal  thor 
oughfare.  Mounting  a  sombre  staircase,  I  pushed  open 
a  door  at  its  summit,  and  found  myself  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  person,  who  mentioned  the  moderate  sum  that 
would  entitle  me  to  admittance. 

"  Three  shillings,  Massachusetts  tenor,"  said  he. 
"  No,  I  mean  half  a  dollar,  as  you  reckon  in  these 
days." 

While  searching  my  pocket  for  the  coin  I  glanced 
at  the  doorkeeper,  the  marked  character  and  individual 
ity  of  whose  aspect  encouraged  me  to  expect  something 
not  quite  in  the  ordinary  way.  He  wore  an  old-fash 
ioned  greatcoat,  much  faded,  within  which  his  meagre 
person  was  so  completely  enveloped  that  the  rest  of  his 
attire  was  undistinguishable.  But  his  visage  was  re 
markably  wind -flushed,  sunburnt,  and  weather-worn, 
and  had  a  most  unquiet,  nervous,  and  apprehensive 
expression.  It  seemed  as  if  this  man  had  some  all-im 
portant  object  in  view,  some  point  of  deepest  interest 
to  be  decided,  some  momentous  question  to  ask,  might 
he  but  hope  for  a  reply.  As  it  was  evident,  however, 
that  I  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  private  affairs. 


538          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

I  passed  through  an  open  doorway,  which  admitted  me 
into  the  extensive  hall  of  the  museum. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  portal  was  the  bronze  statue 
of  a  youth  with  winged  feet.  He  was  represented  in 
the  act  of  flitting  away  from  earth,  yet  wore  such  a 
look  of  earnest  invitation  that  it  impressed  me  like  a 
summons  to  enter  the  hall. 

"It  is  the  original  statue  of  Opportunity,  by  the  an 
cient  sculptor  Lysippus,"  said  a  gentleman  who  now 
approached  me.  "  I  place  it  at  the  entrance  of  my 
museum,  because  it  is  not  at  all  times  that  one  can 
gain  admittance  to  such  a  collection." 

The  speaker  was  a  middle-aged  person,  of  whom  it 
was  not  easy  to  determine  whether  he  had  spent  his 
life  as  a  scholar  or  as  a  man  of  action ;  in  truth,  all 
outward  and  obvious  peculiarities  had  been  worn  away 
by  an  extensive  and  promiscuous  intercourse  with  the 
world.  There  was  no  mark  about  him  of  profession, 
individual  habits,  or  scarcely  of  country ;  although  his 
dark  complexion  and  high  features  made  me  conjec 
ture  that  he  was  a  native  of  some  southern  clime  of 
Europe.  At  all  events,  he  was  evidently  the  virtuoso 
in  person. 

"  With  your  permission,"  said  he,  "  as  we  have  no 
descriptive  catalogue,  I  will  accompany  you  through 
the  museum  and  point  out  whatever  may  be  most 
worthy  of  attention.  In  the  first  place,  here  is  a 
choice  collection  of  stuffed  animals." 

Nearest  the  door  stood  the  outward  semblance  of  a 
wolf,  exquisitely  prepared,  it  is  true,  and  showing  a 
very  wolfish  fierceness  in  the  large  glass  eyes  which 
were  inserted  into  its  wild  and  crafty  head.  Still  it 
was  merely  the  skin  of  a  wolf,  with  nothing  to  distin 
guish  it  from  other  individuals  of  that  unlovely  breed. 


A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  539 

"  How  does  this  animal  deserve  a  place  in  your  col 
lection  ?  "  inquired  I. 

"  It  is  the  wolf  that  devoured  Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood,"  answered  the  virtuoso;  "and  by  his  side  — 
with  a  milder  and  more  matronly  look,  as  you  per 
ceive  —  stands  the  she-wolf  that  suckled  Komulus  and 
Remus." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  I.  "  And  what  lovely 
lamb  is  this  with  the  snow-white  fleece,  which  seems 
to  be  of  as  delicate  a  texture  as  innocence  itself  ?  " 

"  Methinks  you  have  but  carelessly  read  Spenser," 
replied  my  guide,  "  or  you  would  at  once  recognize  the 
'  milk-white  lamb '  which  Una  led.  But  I  set  no  great 
value  upon  the  lamb.  The  next  specimen  is  better 
worth  our  notice." 

"  What !  "  cried  I,  "  this  strange  animal,  with  the 
black  head  of  an  ox  upon  the  body  of  a  white  horse  ? 
Were  it  possible  to  suppose  it,  I  should  say  that  this 
was  Alexander's  steed  Bucephalus." 

"The  same,"  said  the  virtuoso.  "And  can  you 
likewise  give  a  name  to  the  famous  charger  that  stands 
beside  him?" 

Next  to  the  renowned  Bucephalus  stood  the  mere 
skeleton  of  a  horse,  with  the  white  bones  peeping 
through  his  ill-conditioned  hide  ;  but,  if  my  heart  had 
not  warmed  towards  that  pitiful  anatomy,  I  might  as 
well  have  quitted  the  museum  at  once.  Its  rarities 
had  not  been  collected  with  pain  and  torn  from  the  four 
quarters  of  the  earth,  and  from  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
and  from  the  palaces  and  sepulchres  of  ages,  for  those 
who  could  mistake  this  illustrious  steed. 

"It  is  Rosinante ! "  exclaimed  I,  with  enthusiasm. 

And  so  it  proved.  My  admiration  for  the  noble 
and  gallant  horse  caused  me  to  glance  with  less  inter- 


540  MOSSES  FROM  AN   OLD  MANSE. 

est  at  the  other  animals,  although  many  of  them  might 
have  deserved  the  notice  of  Cuvier  himself.  There 
was  the  donkey  which  Peter  Bell  cudgelled  so  soundly, 
and  a  brother  of  the  same  species  who  had  suffered 
a  similar  infliction  from  the  ancient  prophet  Balaam. 
Some  doubts  were  entertained,  however,  as  to  the  au 
thenticity  of  the  latter  beast.  My  guide  pointed  out 
the  venerable  Argus,  that  faithful  dog  of  Ulysses,  and 
also  another  dog  (for  so  the  skin  bespoke  it),  which, 
though  imperfectly  preserved,  seemed  once  to  have 
had  three  heads.  It  was  Cerberus.  I  was  considera 
bly  amused  at  detecting  in  an  obscure  corner  the  fox 
that  became  so  famous  by  the  loss  of  his  tail.  There 
were  several  stuffed  cats,  which,  as  a  dear  lover  of  that 
comfortable  beast,  attracted  my  affectionate  regards. 
One  was  Dr.  Johnson's  cat  Hodge ;  and  in  the  same 
row  stood  the  favorite  cats  of  Mahomet,  Gray,  and 
Walter  Scott,  together  with  Puss  in  Boots,  and  a  cat 
of  very  noble  aspect  who  had  once  been  a  deity  of  an 
cient  Egypt.  Byron's  tame  bear  came  next.  I  must 
not  forget  to  mention  the  Erymanthean  boar,  the  skin 
of  St.  George's  dragon,  and  that  of  the  serpent  Python ; 
and  another  skin  with  beautifully  variegated  hues, 
supposed  to  have  been  the  garment  of  the  "  spirited 
sly  snake"  which  tempted  Eve.  Against  the  walls 
were  suspended  the  horns  of  the  stag  that  Shakespeare 
shot ;  and  on  the  floor  lay  the  ponderous  shell  of  the 
tortoise  which  fell  upon  the  head  of  ^Eschylus.  In 
one  row,  as  natural  as  life,  stood  the  sacred  bull  Apis, 
the  "  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn,"  and  a  very  wild- 
looking  young  heifer,  which  I  guessed  to  be  the  cow 
that  jumped  over  the  moon.  She  was  probably  killed 
by  the  rapidity  of  her  descent.  As  I  turned  away, 
my  eyes  fell  upon  an  indescribable  monster,  which 
proved  to  be  a  griffin. 


A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  541 

"  I  look  in  vain,"  observed  I,  "  for  the  skin  of  an 
animal  which  might  well  deserve  the  closest  study  of 
a  naturalist  —  the  winged  horse,  Pegasus." 

"  He  is  not  yet  dead,"  replied  the  virtuoso  ;  "  but 
he  is  so  hard  ridden  by  many  young  gentlemen  of  the 
day  that  I  hope  soon  to  add  his  skin  and  skeleton  to 
my  collection." 

We  now  passed  to  the  next  alcove  of  the  hall,  in 
which  was  a  multitude  of  stuffed  birds.  They  were 
very  prettily  arranged,  some  upon  the  branches  of 
trees,  others  brooding  upon  nests,  and  others  sus 
pended  by  wires  so  artificially  that  they  seemed  in  the 
very  act  of  flight.  Among  them  was  a  white  dove, 
with  a  withered  branch  of  olive  leaves  in  her  mouth. 

"Can  this  be  the  very  dove,"  inquired  I,  "that 
brought  the  message  of  peace  and  hope  to  the  tempest- 
beaten  passengers  of  the  ark  ?  " 

"  Even  so,"  said  my  companion. 

"  And  this  raven,  I  suppose,"  continued  I,  "  is  the 
game  that  fed  Elijah  in  the  wilderness." 

"  The  raven  ?  No,"  said  the  virtuoso ;  "  it  is  a  bird 
0f  modern  date.  He  belonged  to  one  Barnaby  Rudge ; 
and  many  people  fancied  that  the  devil  himself  was 
disguised  under  his  sable  plumage.  But  poor  Grip 
has  drawn  his  last  cork,  and  has  been  forced  to  '  say 
die  '  at  last.  This  other  raven,  hardly  less  curious,  is 
that  in  which  the  soul  of  King  George  I.  revisited  his 
lady  love,  the  Duchess  of  Kendall." 

My  guide  next  pointed  out  Minerva's  owl  and  the 
vulture  that  preyed  upon  the  liver  of  Prometheus. 
There  was  likewise  the  sacred  ibis  of  Egypt,  and 
one  of  the  Stymphalides  which  Hercules  shot  in  his 
sixth  labor.  Shelley's  skylark,  Bryant's  water-fowl, 
and  a  pigeon  from  the  belfry  of  the  Old  South  Church, 


542  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

preserved  by  N.  P.  Willis,  were  placed  on  the  same 
perch.  I  could  not  but  shudder  on  beholding  Cole 
ridge's  albatross,  transfixed  with  the  Ancient  Mariner's 
cross-bow  shaft.  Beside  this  bird  of  awful  poesy  stood 
a  gray  goose  of  very  ordinary  aspect. 

"  Stuffed  goose  is  no  such  rarity,"  observed  I.  "  Why 
do  you  preserve  such  a  specimen  in  your  museum  ?" 

"  It  is  one  of  the  flock  whose  cackling  saved  the 
Koman  Capitol,"  answered  the  virtuoso.  "  Many 
geese  have  cackled  and  hissed  both  before  and  since  ; 
but  none,  like  these,  have  clamored  themselves  into 
immortality." 

There  seemed  to  be  little  else  that  demanded  notice 
in  this  department  of  the  museum,  unless  we  except 
Robinson  Crusoe's  parrot,  a  live  pho3nix,  a  footless 
.bird  of  paradise,  and  a  splendid  peacock,  supposed 
to  be  the  same  that  once  contained  the  soul  of  Py 
thagoras.  I  therefore  passed  to  the  next  alcove,  the 
shelves  of  which  were  covered  with  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  curiosities  such  as  are  usually  found  in 
similar  establishments.  One  of  the  first  things  that 
took  my  eye  was  a  strange-looking  cap,  woven  of  some 
substance  that  appeared  to  be  neither  woollen,  cotton, 
nor  linen. 

"  Is  this  a  magician's  cap  ?  "  I  asked. 

"No,"  replied  the  virtuoso;  "it  is  merely  Dr.  Frank, 
lin's  cap  of  asbestos.  But  here  is  one  which,  perhaps, 
may  suit  you  better.  It  is  the  wishing  cap  of  Fortu- 
natus.  Will  you  try  it  on  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,"  answered  I,  putting  it  aside  with 
my  hand.  "  The  day  of  wild  wishes  is  past  with  me. 
I  desire  nothing  that  may  not  come  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  Providence." 

"  Then  probably,"  returned  the  virtuoso,  "  you  will 
not  be  tempted  to  rub  this  lamp  ?  " 


A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  543 

While  speaking,  he  took  from  the  shelf  an  antique 
brass  lamp,  curiously  wrought  with  embossed  figures, 
but  so  covered  with  verdigris  that  the  sculpture  was 
almost  eaten  away. 

"  It  is  a  thousand  years,"  said  he,  "  since  the  genius 
of  this  lamp  constructed  Aladdin's  palace  in  a  single 
night.  But  he  still  retains  his  power ;  and  the  man 
who  rubs  Aladdin's  lamp  has  but  to  desire  either  a 
palace  or  a  cottage." 

"I  might  desire  a  cottage,"  replied  I ;  " but  I  would 
have  it  founded  on  sure  and  stable  truth,  not  on 
dreams  and  fantasies.  I  have  learned  to  look  for  the 
real  and  the  true." 

My  guide  next  showed  me  Prospero's  magic  wand, 
broken  into  three  fragments  by  the  hand  of  its  mighty 
master.  On  the  same  shelf  lay  the  gold  ring  of  an 
cient  Gyges,  which  enabled  the  wearer  to  walk  invisi 
ble.  On  the  other  side  of  the  alcove  was  a  tall  look 
ing-glass  in  a  frame  of  ebony,  but  veiled  with  a  curtain 
of  purple  silk,  through  the  rents  o$  which  the  gleam 
of  the  mirror  was  perceptible. 

"  This  is  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  glass,"  observed 
the  virtuoso.  "Draw  aside  the  curtain,  and  picture 
any  human  form  within  your  mind,  and  it  will  be  re 
flected  in  the  mirror." 

"  It  is  enough  if  I  can  picture  it  within  my  mind," 
answered  I.  "  Why  should  I  wish  it  to  be  repeated 
in  the  mirror?  But,  indeed,  these  works  of  magic 
have  grown  wearisome  to  me.  There  are  so  many 
greater  wonders  in  the  world,  to  those  who  keep  their 
eyes  open  and  their  sight  undimmed  by  custom,  that 
all  the  delusions  of  the  old  sorcerers  seem  flat  and 
stale.  Unless  you  can  show  me  something  really  cu 
rious,  I  care  not  to  look  farther  into  your  museum." 


544          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

"Ah,  well,  then,"  said  the  virtuoso,  composedly, 
"  perhaps  you  may  deem  some  of  my  antiquarian  rari 
ties  deserving  of  a  glance." 

He  pointed  out  the  iron  mask,  now  corroded  with 
rust ;  and  my  heart  grew  sick  at  the  sight  of  this 
dreadful  relic,  which  had  shut  out  a  human  being 
from  sympathy  with  his  race.  There  was  nothing 
half  so  terrible  in  the  axe  that  beheaded  King  Charles, 
nor  in  the  dagger  that  slew  Henry  of  Navarre,  nor  in 
the  arrow  that  pierced  the  heart  of  William  Ruf us  — 
all  of  which  were  shown  to  me.  Many  of  the  articles 
derived  their  interest,  such  as  it  was,  from  having  been 
formerly  in  the  possession  of  royalty.  For  instance, 
here  was  Charlemagne's  sheepskin  cloak,  the  flowing 
wig  of  Louis  Quatorze,  the  spinning-wheel  of  Sar- 
danapalus,  and  King  Stephen's  famous  breeches  which 
cost  him  but  a  crown.  The  heart  of  the  Bloody  Mary, 
with  the  word  "  Calais  "  worn  into  its  diseased  sub 
stance,  was  preserved  in  a  bottle  of  spirits  ;  and  near 
it  lay  the  golden  case  in  which  the  queen  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus  treasured  up  that  hero's  heart.  Among 
these  relics  and  heirlooms  of  kings  I  must  not  forget 
the  long,  hairy  ears  of  Midas,  and  a  piece  of  bread 
which  had  been  changed  to  gold  by  the  touch  of  that 
unlucky  monarch.  And  as  Grecian  Helen  was  a 
queen,  it  may  here  be  mentioned  that  I  was  permitted 
to  take  into  my  hand  a  lock  of  her  golden  hair  and 
the  bowl  which  a  sculptor  modelled  from  the  curve  of 
her  perfect  breast.  Here,  likewise,  was  the  robe  that 
smothered  Agamemnon,  Nero's  fiddle,  the  Czar  Peter's 
brandy  bottle,  the  crown  of  Semiramis,  and  Canute's 
sceptre  which  he  extended  over  the  sea.  That  my 
own  land  may  not  deem  itself  neglected,  let  me  add 
that  I  was  favored  with  a  sight  of  the  skull  of  King 


A    VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  545 

Philip,  the  famous  Indian  chief,  whose  head  the  Puri 
tans  smote  off  and  exhibited  upon  a  pole. 

"  Show  me  something  else,"  said  I  to  the  virtuoso. 
"  Kings  are  in  such  an  artificial  position  that  people 
in  the  ordinary  walks  of  life  cannot  feel  an  interest  in 
their  relics.  If  you  could  show  me  the  straw  hat  of 
sweet  little  Nell,  I  would  far  rather  see  it  than  a  king's 
golden  crown." 

"There  it  is,"  said  my  guide,  pointing  carelessly 
with  his  staff  to  the  straw  hat  in  question.  "  But,  in 
deed,  you  are  hard  to  please.  Here  are  the  seven- 
league  boots.  Will  you  try  them  on?  " 

"  Our  modern  railroads  have  superseded  their  use," 
answered  I ;  "  and  as  to  these  cowhide  boots,  I  could 
show  you  quite  as  curious  a  pair  at  the  Transcenden 
tal  community  in  Roxbury." 

We  next  examined  a  collection  of  swords  and  other 
weapons,  belonging  to  different  epochs,  but  thrown  to 
gether  without  much  attempt  at  arrangement.  Here 
was  Arthur's  sword  Excalibar,  and  that  of  the  Cid 
Campeador,  and  the  sword  of  Brutus  rusted  with  Cae 
sar's  blood  and  his  own,  and  the  sword  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
and  that  of  Horatius,  and  that  with  which  Virginius 
slew  his  daughter,  and  the  one  which  Dionysius  sus 
pended  over  the  head  of  Damocles.  Here  also  was  Ar- 
ria's  sword,  which  she  plunged  into  her  own  breast,  in 
order  to  taste  of  death  before  her  husband.  The 
crooked  blade  of  Saladin's  cimeter  next  attracted  my 
notice.  I  know  not  by  what  chance,  but  so  it  hap 
pened,  that  the  sword  of  one  of  our  own  militia  gen 
erals  was  suspended  between  Don  Quixote's  lance  and 
the  brown  blade  of  Hudibras.  My  heart  throbbed  high 
at  the  sight  of  the  helmet  of  Miltiades  and  the  spear 
that  was  broken  in  the  breast  of  Epaminondas.  I  rec- 

VOL.  ii.  35 


546          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

ognized  the  shield  of  Achilles  by  its  resemblance  to 
the  admirable  cast  in  the  possession  of  Professor  Fel- 
ton.  Nothing  in  this  apartment  interested  me  more 
than  Major  Pitcairn's  pistol,  the  discharge  of  which,  at 
Lexington,  began  the  War  of  the  Revolution,  and  was 
reverberated  in  thunder  around  the  land  for  seven 
long  years.  The  bow  of  Ulysses,  though  unstrung  for 
ages,  was  placed  against  the  wall,  together  with  a 
sheaf  of  Robin  Hood's  arrows  and  the  rifle  of  Daniel 
Boone. 

"  Enough  of  weapons,"  said  I,  at  length  ;  "  although 
I  would  gladly  have  seen  the  sacred  shield  which  fell 
from  heaven  in  the  time  of  Numa.  And  surely  you 
should  obtain  the  sword  which  Washington  unsheathed 
at  Cambridge.  But  the  collection  does  you  much  cred 
it.  Let  us  pass  on." 

In  the  next  alcove  we  saw  the  golden  thigh  of 
Pythagoras,  which  had  so  divine  a  meaning ;  and,  by 
one  of  the  queer  analogies  to  which  the  virtuoso  seemed 
to  be  addicted,  this  ancient  emblem  lay  on  the  same 
shelf  with  Peter  Stuyvesant's  wooden  leg,  that  was 
fabled  to  be  of  silver.  Here  was  a  remnant  of  the 
Golden  Fleece,  and  a  sprig  of  yellow  leaves  that  re 
sembled  the  foliage  of  a  frost-bitten  elm,  but  was  duly 
authenticated  as  a  portion  of  the  golden  branch  by 
which  ^Eneas  gained  admittance  to  the  realm  of  Pluto. 
Atalanta's  golden  apple  and  one  of  the  apples  of  dis 
cord  were  wrapped  in  the  napkin  of  gold  which  Ramp- 
sinitus  brought  from  Hades ;  and  the  whole  were  de 
posited  in  the  golden  vase  of  Bias,  with  its  inscription : 
u  To  THE  WISEST." 

"  And  how  did  you  obtain  this  vase  ?  "  said  I  to  the 
virtuoso. 

"  It  was  given  me  long   ago,"  replied  he,  with  a 


I 

A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  547 

scornful  expression  in  his  eye,  "  because  I  had  learned 
to  despise  all  things." 

It  had  not  escaped  me  that,  though  the  virtuoso  was 
evidently  a  man  of  high  cultivation,  yet  he  seemed  to 
lack  sympathy  with  the  spiritual,  the  sublime,  and  the 
tender.  Apart  from  the  whim  that  had  led  him  to 
devote  so  much  time,  pains,  and  expense  to  the  collec 
tion  of  this  museum,  he  impressed  me  as  one  of  the 
hardest  and  coldest  men  of  the  world  whom  I  had  ever 
met. 

"  To  despise  all  things  !  "  repeated  I.     "  This,  at 
best,  is  the  wisdom  of  the  understanding.     It  is  the  ( 
creed  of  a  man  whose  soul,  whose  better  and  diviner 
part,  has  never  been  awakened,  or  has  died  out  of  \ 
him."  ) 

"  1  did  not  think  that  you  were  still  so  young,"  said  / 
the  virtuoso.  "  Should  you  live  to  my  years,  you  will  \ 
acknowledge  that  the  vase  of  Bias  was  not  ill  be-  j 
stowed." 

Without  further  discussion  of  the  point,  he  directed 
rny  attention  to  other  curiosities.  I  examined  Cinder 
ella's  little  glass  slipper,  and  compared  it  with  one  of 
Diana's  sandals,  and  with  Fanny  Elssler's  shoe,  which 
bore  testimony  to  the  muscular  character  of  her  illus 
trious  foot.  On  the  same  shelf  were  Thomas  the 
Rhymer's  green  velvet  shoes,  and  the  brazen  shoe  of 
Empedocles  which  was  thrown  out  of  Mount  JEtna. 
Anacreon's  drinking-cup  was  placed  in  apt  juxtaposi 
tion  with  one  of  Tom  Moore's  wineglasses  and  Circe's 
magic  bowl.  These  were  symbols  of  luxury  and  riot ; 
but  near  them  stood  the  cup  whence  Socrates  drank 
his  hemlock,  and  that  which  Sir  Philip  Sidney  put 
from  his  death-parched  lips  to  bestow  the  draught  upon 
a  dying  soldier.  Next  appeared  a  cluster  of  tobacco- 


548          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

pipes,  consisting  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's,  the  earliest 
on  record,  Dr.  Parr's,  Charles  Lamb's,  and  the  first 
calumet  of  peace  which  was  ever  smoked  between  a 
European  and  an  Indian.  Among  other  musical  in 
struments,  I  noticed  the  lyre  of  Orpheus  and  those  of 
Homer  and  Sappho,  Dr.  Franklin's  famous  whistle, 
the  trumpet  of  Anthony  Van  Corlear,  and  the  flute 
which  Goldsmith  played  upon  in  his  rambles  through 
the  French  provinces.  The  staff  of  Peter  the  Hermit 
stood  in  a  corner  with  that  of  good  old  Bishop  Jewel, 
and  one  of  ivory,  which  had  belonged  to  Papirius,  the 
Roman  senator.  The  ponderous  club  of  Hercules  was 
close  at  hand.  The  virtuoso  showed  me  the  chisel  of 
Phidias,  Claude's  palette,  and  the  brush  of  Apelles, 
observing  that  he  intended  to  bestow  the  former  either 
011  Greenough,  Crawford,  or  Powers,  and  the  two  latter 
upon  Washington  Allston.  There  was  a  small  vase  of 
oracular  gas  from  Delphos,  which  I  trust  will  be  sub 
mitted  to  the  scientific  analysis  of  Professor  Silliman. 
I  was  deeply  moved  on  beholding  a  vial  of  the  tears 
into  which  Niobe  was  dissolved  ;  nor  less  so  on  learn 
ing  that  a  shapeless  fragment  of  salt  was  a  relic  of 
that  victim  of  despondency  and  sinful  regrets  —  Lot's 
wife.  My  companion  appeared  to  set  great  value  upon 
some  Egyptian  darkness  in  a  blacking  jug.  Several 
of  the  shelves  were  covered  by  a  collection  of  coins, 
among  which,  however,  I  remember  none  but  the 
Splendid  Shilling,  celebrated  by  Phillips,  and  a  dol 
lar's  worth  of  the  iron  money  of  Lycurgus,  weighing 
about  fifty  pounds. 

Walking  carelessly  onward,  I  had  nearly  fallen  over 
a  huge  bundle,  like  a  pedlar's  pack,  done  up  in  sack 
cloth  and  very  securely  strapped  and  corded. 

"  It  is  Christian's  burden  of  sin,"  said  the  virtuoso. 


A    VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  549 

"  Oh,  pray  let  us  open  it !  "  cried  I.  "  For  many  a 
year  I  have  longed  to  know  its  contents." 

"  Look  into  your  own  consciousness  and  memory," 
replied  the  virtuoso.  "  You  will  there  find  a  list  of 
whatever  it  contains." 

As  this  was  an  undeniable  truth,  I  threw  a  melan 
choly  look  at  the  burden  and  passed  on.  A  collection 
of  old  garments,  hanging  on  pegs,  was  worthy  of  some 
attention,  especially  the  shirt  of  Nessus,  Caesar's  mantle, 
Joseph's  coat  of  many  colors,  the  Vicar  of  Bray's  cas 
sock,  Goldsmith's  peach-bloom  suit,  a  pair  of  Presi 
dent  Jefferson's  scarlet  breeches,  John  Randolph's  red 
baize  hunting  shirt,  the  drab  smallclothes  of  the  Stout 
Gentleman,  and  the  rags  of  the  "  man  all  tattered  and 
torn."  George  Fox's  hat  impressed  me  with  deep  rev 
erence  as  a  relic  of  perhaps  the  truest  apostle  that 
has  appeared  on  earth  for  these  eighteen  hundred 
years.  My  eye  was  next  attracted  by  an  old  pair  of 
shears,  which  I  should  have  taken  for  a  memorial  of 
some  famous  tailor,  only  that  the  virtuoso  pledged  his 
veracity  that  they  were  the  identical  scissors  of  Atropos. 
He  also  showed  me  a  broken  hour-glass  which  had  been 
thrown  aside  by  Father  Time,  together  with  the  old 
gentleman's  gray  forelock,  tastefully  braided  into  a 
brooch.  In  the  hour-glass  was  the  handful  of  sand,  the 
grains  of  which  had  numbered  the  years  of  the  Cu- 
maean  sibyl.  I  think  it  was  in  this  alcove  that  I  saw 
the  inkstand  which  Luther  threw  at  the  devil,  and  the 
ring  which  Essex,  while  under  sentence  of  death,  sent 
to  Queen  Elizabeth.  And  here  was  the  blood -in- 
crusted  pen  of  steel  with  which  Faust  signed  away  his 
salvation. 

The  virtuoso  now  opened  the  door  of  a  closet  and 
showed  me  a  lamp  burning,  while  three  others  stood 


550          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

unlighted  by  its  side.  One  of  the  three  was  the  lamp 
of  Diogenes,  another  that  of  Guy  Fawkes,  and  the 
third  that  which  Hero  set  forth  to  the  midnight  breeze 
in  the  high  tower  of  Abydos. 

"  See ! "  said  the  virtuoso,  blowing  with  all  his  force 
at  the  lighted  lamp. 

The  flame  quivered  and  shrank  away  from  his 
breath,  but  clung  to  the  wick,  and  resumed  its  brill 
iancy  as  soon  as  the  blast  was  exhausted. 

"  It  is  an  undying  lamp  from  the  tomb  of  Charle 
magne,"  observed  my  guide.  "  That  flame  was  kin 
dled  a  thousand  years  ago." 

"  How  ridiculous  to  kindle  an  unnatural  light  in 
tombs  !  "  exclaimed  I.  "  We  should  seek  to  behold 
the  dead  in  the  light  of  heaven.  But  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  chafing-dish  of  glowing  coals  ?  " 

"  That,"  answered  the  virtuoso,  "  is  the  original  fire 
which  Prometheus  stole  from  heaven.  Look  stead 
fastly  into  it,  and  you  will  discern  another  curiosity." 

I  gazed  into  that  fire,  —  which,  symbolically,  was 
the  origin  of  all  that  was  bright  and  glorious  in  the 
soul  of  man,  —  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  behold,  a  little 
reptile,  sporting  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the  fervid 
heat  !  It  was  a  salamander. 

"What  a  sacrilege!"  cried  I,  with  inexpressible 
disgust.  "  Can  you  find  no  better  use  for  this  ethereal 
fire  than  to  cherish  a  loathsome  reptile  in  it  ?  Yet 
there  are  men  who  abuse  the  sacred  fire  of  their  own 
souls  to  as  foul  and  guilty  a  purpose." 

The  virtuoso  made  no  answer  except  by  a  dry  laugh 
and  an  assurance  that  the  salamander  was  the  very 
same  which  Benvenuto  Cellini  had  seen  in  his  fath 
er's  household  fire.  He  then  proceeded  to  show  me 
other  rarities  ;  for  this  closet  appeared  to  be  the  re- 


A   VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  551 

oeptacle  of  what  he  considered  most  valuable  in  his 
collection. 

"  There/'  said  he,  "  is  the  Great  Carbuncle  of  the 
White  'Mountains." 

I  gazed  with  no  little  interest  at  this  mighty  gem, 
which  it  had  been  one  of  the  wild  projects  of  my  youth 
to  discover.  Possibly  it  might  have  looked  brighter 
to  me  in  those  days  than  now ;  at  all  events,  it  had  not 
such  brilliancy  as  to  detain  me  long  from  the  other 
articles  of  the  museum.  The  virtuoso  pointed  out  to 
me  a  crystalline  stone  which  hung  by  a  gold  chain 
against  the  wall. 

"  That  is  the  philosopher's  stone,"  said  he. 

"  And  have  you  the  elixir  vitae  which  generally  ac 
companies  it  ?  "  inquired  I. 

"  Even  so ;  this  urn  is  filled  with  it,"  he  replied. 
"  A  draught  would  refresh  you.  Here  is  Hebe's  cup ; 
will  you  quaff  a  health  from  it  ?  " 

My  heart  thrilled  within  me  at  the  idea  of  such  a 
reviving  draught ;  for  methought  I  had  great  need  of 
it  after  travelling  so  far  on  the  dusty  road  of  life.  But 
I  know  not  whether  it  were  a  peculiar  glance  in  the 
virtuoso's  eye,  or  the  circumstance  that  this  most  pre 
cious  liquid  was  contained  in  an  antique  sepulchral 
urn,  that  made  me  pause.  Then  came  many  a  thought 
with  which,  in  the  calmer  and  better  hours  of  Kfe,  I 
had  strengthened  myself  to  feel  that  Death  is  the  very 
friend  whom,  in  his  due  season,  even  the  happiest  mor 
tal  should  be  willing  to  embrace. 

"  No ;  I  desire  not  an  earthly  immortality,"  said  I. 
"  Were  man  to  live  longer  on  the  earth,  the  spiritual 
would  die  out  of  him.  The  spark  of  ethereal  fire 
would  be  choked  by  the  material,  the  sensual.  There 
is  a  celestial  something  within  us  that  requires,  after  » 


552          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

certain  time,  the  atmosphere  of  heaven  to  preserve  it 
from  decay  and  ruin.  I  will  have  none  of  this  liquid. 
You  do  well  to  keep  it  in  a  sepulchral  urn ;  for  it 
would  produce  death  while  bestowing  the  sha'dow  of 
life." 

"All  this  is  unintelligible  to  me,"  responded  my 
guide,  with  indifference.  "  Life  —  earthly  life  —  is 
the  only  good.  But  you  refuse  the  draught  ?  Well, 
it  is  not  likely  to  be  offered  twice  within  one  man's 
experience.  Probably  you  have  griefs  which  you  seek 
to  forget  in  death.  I  can  enable  you  to  forget  them 
in  life.  Will  you  take  a  draught  of  Lethe  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  virtuoso  took  from  the  shelf  a 
crystal  vase  containing  a  sable  liquor,  which  caught 
no  reflected  image  from  the  objects  around. 

"  Not  for  the  world  !  "  exclaimed  I,  shrinking  back. 
"  I  can  spare  none  of  my  recollections,  not  even  those 
of  error  or  sorrow.  They  are  all  alike  the  food  of  my 
spirit.  As  well  never  to  have  lived  as  to  lose  them 
now." 

Without  further  parley  we  passed  to  the  next  alcove, 
the  shelves  of  which  were  burdened  with  ancient  vol 
umes  and  with  those  rolls  of  papyrus  in  which  was 
treasured  up  the  eldest  wisdom  of  the  earth.  Perhaps 
the  most  valuable  work  in  the  collection,  to  a  biblio 
maniac,  was  the  Book  of  Hermes.  For  my  part,  how 
ever,  I  would  have  given  a  higher  price  for  those  six 
of  the  Sibyl's  books  which  Tarquin  refused  to  pur 
chase,  and  which,  the  virtuoso  informed  me,  he  had 
himself  found  in  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  Doubtless 
these  old  volumes  contain  prophecies  of  the  fate  of 
Rome,  both  as  respects  the  decline  and  fall  of  her  tem 
poral  empire  and  the  rise  of  her  spiritual  one.  Not 
without  value,  likewise,  was  the  work  of  Anaxagoras 


A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  553 

on  Nature,  hitherto  supposed  to  be  irrecoverably  lost, 
and  the  missing  treatises  of  Longinus,  by  which  mod 
ern  criticism  might  profit,  and  those  books  of  Livy  for 
which  the  classic  student  has  so  long  sorrowed  without 
hope.  Among  these  precious  tomes  I  observed  the 
original  manuscript  of  the  Koran,  and  also  that  of  the 
Mormon  Bible  in  Joe  Smith's  authentic  autograph. 
Alexander's  copy  of  the  Iliad  was  also  there,  enclosed 
in  the  jewelled  casket  of  Darius,  still  fragrant  of  the 
perfumes  which  the  Persian  kept  in  it. 

Opening  an  iron-clasped  volume,  bound  in  black 
leather,  I  discovered  it  to  be  Cornelius  Agrippa's 
book  of  magic ;  and  it  was  rendered  still  more  inter 
esting  by  the  fact  that  many  flowers,  ancient  and 
modern,  were  pressed  between  its  leaves.  Here  was  a 
rose  from  Eve's  bridal  bower,  and  all  those  red  and 
white  roses  which  were  plucked  in  the  garden  of  the 
Temple  by  the  partisans  of  York  and  Lancaster.  Here 
was  Halleck's  Wild  Kose  of  Alloway.  Cowper  had 
contributed  a  Sensitive  Plant,  and  Wordsworth  an 
Eglantine,  and  Burns  a  Mountain  Daisy,  and  Kirke 
White  a  Star  of  Bethlehem,  and  Long-fellow  a  Sprig 
of  Fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers.  James  Russell 
Lowell  had  given  a  Pressed  Flower,  but  fragrant  still, 
which  had  been  shadowed  in  the  Rhine.  There  was 
also  a  sprig  from  Southey's  Holly-Tree.  One  of  the 
most  beautiful  specimens  was  a  Fringed  Gentian, 
which  had  been  plucked  and  preserved  for  immor 
tality  by  Bryant.  From  Jones  Very,  a  poet  whose 
voice  is  scarcely  heard  among  us  by  reason  of  its 
depth,  there  was  a  Wind  Flower  and  a  Columbine. 

As  I  closed  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  volume,  an 
old,  mildewed  letter  fell  upon  the  floor.  It  proved  to 
be  an  autograph  from  the  Flying  Dutchman  to  his 


554          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

wife.  I  could  linger  no  longer  among  books  ;  for  the 
afternoon  was  waning,  and  there  was  yet  much  to  see. 
The  bare  mention  of  a  few  more  curiosities  must  suf 
fice.  The  immense  skull  of  Polyphemus  was  recog 
nizable  by  the  cavernous  hollow  in  the  centre  of  the 
forehead  where  once  had  blazed  the  giant's  single  eye. 
The  tub  of  Diogenes,  Medea's  caldron,  and  Psyche's 
vase  of  beauty  were  placed  one  within  another.  Pan 
dora's  box,  without  the  lid,  stood  next,  containing 
nothing  but  the  girdle  of  Venus,  which  had  been  care 
lessly  flung  into  it.  A  bundle  of  birch  rods  which 
had  been  used  by  Shenstone's  schoolmistress  were  tied 
up  with  the  Countess  of  Salisbury's  garter.  I  knew 
not  which  to  value  most,  a  roc's  egg  as  big  as  an  ordi 
nary  hogshead,  or  the  shell  of  the  egg  which  Colum 
bus  set  upon  its  end.  Perhaps  the  most  delicate  ar 
ticle  in  the  whole  museum  was  Queen  Mab's  chariot, 
which,  to  guard  it  from  the  touch  of  meddlesome  fin 
gers,  was  placed  under  a  glass  tumbler. 

Several  of  the  shelves  were  occupied  by  specimens 
of  entomology.  Feeling  but  little  interest  in  the  sci 
ence  I  noticed  only  Anacreon's  grasshopper,  and  a 
humble  bee  which  had  been  presented  to  the  virtuoso 
by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

In  the  part  of  the  hall  which  we  had  now  reached  I 
observed  a  curtain  that  descended  from  the  ceiling  to 
the  floor  in  voluminous  folds,  of  a  depth,  richness,  and 
magnificence  which  I  had  never  seen  equalled.  It 
was  not  to  be  doubted  that  this  splendid  though  dark 
and  solemn  veil  concealed  a  portion  of  the  museum 
even  richer  in  wonders  than  that  through  which  I  had 
already  passed  ;  but,  on  my  attempting  to  grasp  the 
edge  of  the  curtain  and  draw  it  aside,  it  proved  to  be 
an  illusive  picture. 


A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  555 

"You  need  not  blush,"  remarked  the  virtuoso  ;  "for 
that  same  curtain  deceived  Zeuxis.  It  is  the  celebrated 
painting  of  Parrhasius." 

In  a  range  with  the  curtain  there  were  a  number  of 
other  choice  pictures  by  artists  of  ancient  days.  Here 
was  the  famous  cluster  of  grapes  by  Zeuxis,  so  ad 
mirably  depicted  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  ripe  juice 
were  bursting  forth.  As  to  the  picture  of  the  old 
woman  by  the  same  illustrious  painter,  and  which  was 
so  ludicrous  that  he  himself  died  with  laughing  at  it, 
I  cannot  say  that  it  particularly  moved  my  risibility. 
Ancient  humor  seems  to  have  little  power  over  mod 
ern  muscles.  Here,  also,  was  the  horse  painted  by 
Apelles  which  living  horses  neighed  at ;  his  first  por* 
trait  of  Alexander  the  Great,  and  his '  last  unfinished 
picture  of  Venus  asleep.  Each  of  these  works  of  art% 
together  with  others  by  Parrhasius,  Timanthes,  Polyg* 
notus,  Apollodorus,  Pausias,  and  Pamphilus,  required 
more  time  and  study  than  I  could  bestow  for  the  ade* 
quate  perception  of  their  merits.  I  shall  therefore 
leave  them  undescribed  and  uncriticised,  nor  attempt 
to  settle  the  question  of  superiority  between  ancient 
and  modern  art. 

For  the  same  reason  I  shall  pass  lightly  over  the 
specimens  of  antique  sculpture  which  this  indefati 
gable  and  fortunate  virtuoso  had  dug  out  of  the  dust 
of  fallen  empires.  Here  was  ^tion's  cedar  statue  of 
^Esculapius,  much  decayed,  and  Alcon's  iron  statue  of 
Hercules,  lamentably  rusted.  Here  was  the  statue 
of  Victory,  six  feet  high,  which  the  Jupiter  Olympus 
of  Phidias  had  held  in  his  hand.  Here  was  a  fore 
finger  of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,  seven  feet  in  length. 
Here  was  the  Venus  Urania  of  Phidias,  and  other 
images  of  male  and  female  beauty  or  grandeur, 


556          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

wrought  by  sculptors  who  appear  never  to  have  de 
based  their  souls  by  the  sight  of  any  meaner  forms 
than  those  of  gods  or  godlike  mortals.  But  the  deep 
simplicity  of  these  great  works  was  not  to  be  compre 
hended  by  a  mind  excited  and  disturbed,  as  mine  was, 
by  the  various  objects  that  had  recently  been  presented 
to  it.  I  therefore  turned  away  with  merely  a  passing 
glance,  resolving  on  some  future  occasion  to  brood 
over  each  individual  statue  and  picture  until  my  in 
most  spirit  should  feel  their  excellence.  In  this  de 
partment,  again,  I  noticed  the  tendency  to  whimsical 
combinations  and  ludicrous  analogies  which  seemed  to 
influence  many  of  the  arrangements  of  the  museum. 
The  wooden  statue  so  well  known  as  the  Palladium  of 
Troy  was  placed  in  close  apposition  with  the  wooden 
head  of  General  Jackson  which  was  stolen  a  few  years 
since  from  the  bows  of  the  frigate  Constitution. 

We  had  now  completed  the  circuit  of  the  spacious 
hall,  and  found  ourselves  again  near  the  door.  Feel 
ing  somewhat  wearied  with  the  survey  of  so  many 
novelties  and  antiquities,  I  sat  down  upon  Cowper's 
sofa,  while  the  virtuoso  threw  himself  carelessly  into 
Rabelais'  easy  chair.  Casting  my  eyes  upon  the  op 
posite  wall,  I  was  surprised  to  perceive  the  shadow  of 
a  man  flickering  unsteadily  across  the  wainscot,  and 
looking  as  if  it  were  stirred  by  some  breath  of  air 
that  found  its  way  through  the  door  or  windows.  No 
substantial  figure  was  visible  from  which  this  shadow 
might  be  thrown  ;  nor,  had  there  been  such,  was  there 
,any  sunshine  that  would  have  caused  it  to  darken  upon 
the  wall. 

"  It  is  Peter  SchlemihTs  shadow,"  observed  the  vir 
tuoso,  "  and  one  of  the  most  valuable  articles  in  my 
collection." 


A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION'.  557 

"  Methinks  a  shadow  would  have  made  a  fitting 
door-keeper  to  such  a  museum,"  said  I ;  "  although,  in 
deed,  yonder  figure  has  something  strange  and  fantas 
tic  about  him,  which  suits  well  enough  with  many  of 
the  impressions  which  I  have  received  here.  Pray, 
who  is  he  ?  " 

While  speaking,  I  gazed  more  scrutinizingly  than 
before  at  the  antiquated  presence  of  the  person  who 
had  admitted  me,  and  who  still  sat  on  his  bench  with 
the  same  restless  aspect,  and  dim,  confused  question 
ing  anxiety  that  I  had  noticed  on  my  first  entrance. 
At  this  moment  he  looked  eagerly  towards  us,  and, 
half  starting  from  his  seat,  addressed  me. 

"  I  beseech  you,  kind  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  cracked, 
melancholy  tone,  "  have  pity  on  the  most  unfortunate 
man  in  the  world.  For  Heaven's  sake,  answer  me  a 
single  question  !  Is  this  the  town  of  Boston  ?  " 

"  You  have  recognized  him  now,"  said  the  virtuoso. 
"  It  is  Peter  Rugg,  the  missing  man.  I  chanced  to 
meet  him  the  other  day  still  in  search  of  Boston,  and 
conducted  him  hither ;  and,  as  he  could  not  succeed 
in  finding  his  friends,  I  have  taken  him  into  my  ser 
vice  as  door-keeper.  He  is  somewhat  too  apt  to  ram 
ble,  but  otherwise  a  man  of  trust  and  integrity." 

"  And  might  I  venture  to  ask,"  continued  I,  "  to 
whom  am  I  indebted  for  this  afternoon's  gratifica 
tion?" 

The  virtuoso,  before  replying,  laid  his  hand  upon  an 
antique  dart,  or  javelin,  the  rusty  steel  head  of  which 
seemed  to  have  been  'blunted,  as  if  it  had  encountered 
the  resistance  of  a  tempered  shield,  or  breastplate. 

"  My  name  has  not  been  without  its  distinction  in 
the  world  for  a  longer  period  than  that  of  any  other 
man  alive,"  answered  he.  "  Yet  many  doubt  of  my 


558          MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

existence ;  perhaps  you  will  do  so  to-morrow.  This 
dart  which  I  hold  in  my  hand  was  once  grim  Death's 
own  weapon.  It  served  him  well  for  the  space  of 
four  thousand  years  ;  but  it  fell  blunted,  as  you  see, 
when  he  directed  it  against  my  breast." 

These  words  were  spoken  with  the  calm  and  cold 
courtesy  of  manner  that  had  characterized  this  singular 
personage  throughout  our  interview.  I  fancied,  it  is 
true,  that  there  was  a  bitterness  indefinably  mingled 
with  his  tone,  as  of  one  cut  off  from  natural  sympa 
thies  and  blasted  with  a  doom  that  had  been  inflicted 
on  no  other  human  being,  and  by  the  results  of  which 
he  had  ceased  to  be  human.  Yet,  withal,  it  seemed 
one  of  the  most  terrible  consequences  of  that  doom 
that  the  victim  no  longer  regarded  it  as  a  calamity, 
but  had  finally  accepted  it  as  the  greatest  good  that 
could  have  befallen  him. 

"  You  are  the  Wandering  Jew ! "  exclaimed  I. 

The  virtuoso  bowed  without  emotion  of  any  kind ; 
for,  by  centuries  of  custom,  he  had  almost  lost  the 
sense  of  strangeness  in  his  fate,  and  was  but  imper 
fectly  conscious  of  the  astonishment  and  awe  with 
which  it  affected  such  as  are  capable  of  death. 

"  Your  doom  is  indeed  a  fearful  one  !  "  said  I,  with 
irrepressible  feeling  and  a  frankness  that  afterwards 
startled  me ;  "  yet  perhaps  the  ethereal  spirit  is  not  en 
tirely  extinct  under  all  this  corrupted  or  frozen  mass 
of  earthly  life.  Perhaps  the  immortal  spark  may  yet 
be  rekindled  by  a  breath  of  Heaven.  Perhaps  you  may 
yet  be  permitted  to  die  before  it  is  too  late  to  live  eter 
nally.  You  have  my  prayers  for  such  a  consummation. 
Farewell." 

"  Your  prayers  will  be  in  vain,"  replied  he,  with  a 
smile  of  cold  triumph.  "  My  destiny  is  linked  with 


A   VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  559 

the  realities  of  earth.  You  are  welcome  to  your  vis 
ions  and  shadows  of  a  future  state  ;  but  give  me  what 
I  can  see,  and  touch,  and  understand,  and  I  ask  no 
more." 

"  It  is  indeed  too  late,"  thought  I.  "  The  soul  is 
dead  within  him." 

Struggling  between  pity  and  horror,  I  extended  my 
hand,  to  which  the  virtuoso  gave  his  own,  still  with  the 
habitual  courtesy  of  a  man  of  the  world,  but  without  a 
single  heart  throb  of  human  brotherhood.  The  touch 
seemed  like  ice,  yet  I  know  not  whether  morally  or 
physically.  As  I  departed,  he  bade  me  observe  that 
the  inner  door  of  the  hall  was  constructed  with  the 
ivory  leaves  of  the  gateway  through  which  JEneas  and 
the  Sibyl  had  been  dismissed  from  Hades. 


THE  END* 


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U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


